


if you look for it

by leetlebird



Series: Lax Bro AU [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Coming Out, F/F, Getting Back Together, Getting Together, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Marriage Proposal, and they were ROOMMATES, holds one beautiful pancake: I Made This For You, lax bros attempting tenderness, pancakes as a token of love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-22 05:14:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 39,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11960442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leetlebird/pseuds/leetlebird
Summary: One weekend; three love stories.(Featuring: Disgruntled Starbucks employees, ex-lovers making breakfast together, a LAX bro falling in love and feeling cranky about it, and Ransom driving a mom van.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel of sorts, but if you haven't read the first story and want to live adventurously (or if you read it too long ago to remember much), don't worry! All you need to know is that the first part of the story was a Romeo and Juliet AU, where Holster fell in love with Lax Bro Ransom. I created a bunch of lax bro OC's for Ransom to hang with, and a lot of readers wanted to see a romance between lax bros Puppy and Evan, who were sophomores when we saw them last. They were BFFs at Samwell, but their friendship never became romantic during the first part of the series. (And, if you're wondering, Puppy's character is based on the Shakespeare character Dogsberry, hence the terrible nickname.) THIS PARTICULAR STORY IS NOT A SHAKESPEARE AU OF ANY KIND. 
> 
> I decided to just.... layer all 3 romances together in one story? If it worked for Love Actually, it'll work for me, right?? On that note, the title comes from the opening airport monologue in Love Actually :)
> 
> Also, I apologize in advance for Evan's personality. I'd say he's trying, but he really isn't. (I love him anyway, and I hope you do, too.)

Wednesday, May 2, 2018

Evan’s been having a shitty day.

First, the girl he’s been hooking up with for a couple weeks asked to DTR. So he’s, like, minus one girl to hook up with now, because she didn’t particularly like the way he’d said _”relationship?”_ in a horrified tone.

Second, his landlord cashed Evan’s rent check today, which sucks majorly, and also serves as a tragic reminder that, thanks to Evan’s roommate moving out, he’ll have to start paying the whole rent himself next month if he can’t find someone else to move in. 

(He’d figured it would be easy, finding a roommate. Turns out he was wrong. Maybe he needs to stop screening people by asking for a complete list of their favorite teams. But shit, he likes to have high standards for people who are a big part of his life. See reason #1.)

And third, the guy he’d found on Craigslist looking for a place to live just cancelled on him, so now his roommate search is down to a thrilling total of _zero_ leads. Fucking great.

Evan actually can’t afford to pay the whole rent by himself, is the thing. Maybe he’s going to have to move out, too, but he’s already missed the deadline to give his notice if he wants to be out before June’s rent is due.

“I don’t want to pack all my shiiiiit,” Evan whines to no one in particular. His apartment is depressingly empty, and he doesn’t even _like_ people.

Then he decides not to care about it for the next hour, so he heats up some ramen like the fucking chef he is, grabs the remote, and turns on the Falconers game. He checks his phone, realizes he has a new text that he didn’t hear come in, and stills. Stares at the screen for a second.

_heyyy evan, so ola mentioned a while ago u were looking for a roomie. idk if u still are?? but im actually moving back next month so i hope u still have a spot open let me know dude_

Evan hasn’t heard from Peter Coleman in months. Hasn’t _actually_ heard from him in almost a year, if you don’t count the time in February when Evan woke up to a weird, drunk voicemail that he could barely understand, followed by a more sober voicemail left a few hours later, apologizing. 

( _it’s cool dude_ , Evan had texted back, not sure what Puppy was apologizing for, exactly. He doesn’t really think about that anymore.)

Shit, he hasn’t heard from him in so long, he doesn’t actually know if he still lets people call him Puppy. It seems like the type of thing you’d leave behind after college, but that thought makes Evan a little sad, so he stops thinking about that, too.

This probably solves one of Evan’s problems, though, even if it’s creating a new one at the same time. Whatever. He texts Puppy back quickly, letting him know that the vacancy’s still open and that Puppy can move in if he wants to.

Evan’s expecting a few more questions, stuff about the rent or parking or… he doesn’t know, the pet policy? But Puppy just texts back a thumbs up emoji, followed by a move-in date in early June, so Evan guesses that’s settled, then. He sends Puppy the landlord’s cell number and tosses his phone to the side.

He tries to keep watching the game, but that doesn’t work. Evan groans, flips over onto his stomach, and lets his face get smothered in the sofa cushion beneath him.

A little over a month from now, Puppy’s going to be living in the same apartment as him.

This is going to totally suck.

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


Thursday, June 7, 2018

The classiest Samwell grads eat at The Cheesecake Factory, apparently, because that’s where the local remnants of the Samwell Men’s Hockey and Lacrosse teams are gathered on a Thursday night.

Dex, Nursey, and Chowder have only officially been Samwell graduates for a couple weeks, and while Chowder is a reasonable person and is just going home to the house he and his girlfriend recently started renting, Dex and Nursey are leaving first thing in the morning for a summer-long trip to Spain.

Sometimes Evan wishes he were rich. Or that he were dating a rich person, maybe. (Also, for someone who puts up a token protest every time Nursey tries to pay for something, Dex sure seems excited about this vacation despite the fact that Nursey is bankrolling the whole thing. Lucky bastard.)

That’s technically what they’re all here for, actually -- seeing Dex and Nursey off, wishing them well on the night before their big adventure. It’s an impressively big group here tonight: Chad and Ola, who Evan’s honestly surprised have continued to keep in contact with him after graduation; Shitty, who Evan hasn’t seen in ages and who actually looks like a presentable human person for once; Camilla, who’s apparently a lawyer for, like, underprivileged kids now; Ransom and Holster, who have managed to go from staring stupidly into each other’s eyes on the front porch of the Haus to staring stupidly into each other’s eyes in a booth at The Cheesecake Factory; Marty, who Evan sees a million times a week even though he doesn’t necessarily want to; and Bitty, who’s acting extra smug now that his boyfriend actually won a Stanley Cup.

Needless to say, the servers are doing their best to seat the other guests far away from the Samwell booths. Samwell may have taken all of their money, but it didn’t take their ability to be loud as fuck. 

Evan lets himself drift out of the conversation. He wonders if this is the same Cheesecake Factory he and Puppy got kicked out of two years ago when they were drunk. It’s all kind of blurry after he started throwing ice cubes at the Harvard students a few tables over.

“... Puppy tomorrow?” Ransom is saying. Evan tunes back in.

“Sure,” Camilla says. “Just text me what time.”

“Wait, what? What about Puppy?” Ola asks. She shoots Evan an irritated look, probably because she thinks it’s his job to keep her in the loop on any Puppy-related gossip and he failed her, but Evan just shrugs and looks away.

Camilla smiles, big and uncomplicated. “He’s moving back! Tomorrow! Knowing him, he probably has a lot of stuff, so if anyone’s free tomorrow afternoon, please come help. The more movers, the better, right?”

Evan doesn’t know if Puppy actually has a lot of stuff. They haven’t really talked.

“Where’s he gonna be living?” Bitty asks, and there’s a pause. Like Evan didn’t already tell four of them where Puppy was going to be living, but he guesses it’s his job to answer anyway, and the ones who know are waiting for him to speak.

“With me,” Evan says, like this isn’t the type of information they would have wanted to know way earlier. He tries to keep the edge of annoyance out of his voice, because this is one topic he doesn’t want to field any questions about. “He said his flight gets in at two.”

“And since we’ll already be there to drop off Nursey and Dex,” Ransom says, gesturing at Camilla, “we’re gonna pick him up and bring him over for Evan. Cause we’re nice friends like that.”

“Yeah, you’re real martyrs,” Evan says, rolling his eyes. “Thanks, though.” It’s dumb, but he’d been absurdly relieved to have an extra hour to put off seeing Puppy again.

The others don’t seem to notice that his lack of enthusiasm is genuine instead of his usual front, which is probably for the best. Because his friend group has been replaced by, like, pod people or something, four of them end up volunteering to come over and help Puppy move in even though it’ll be a huge hassle with no material reward. 

“I can’t believe this,” Bitty says reverently, and there are actual tears in his eyes as he clasps his hands together. “I’m going to give him the _biggest_ hug.”

Evan can’t help but smile, just for a second. Then he scowls and stabs at his grilled salmon. 

“God, I love that kid,” Holster says.

Marty nods. “Who doesn’t?”

Evan takes a sip of his ice water.

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


Friday, June 8, 2018

March is bored of just being in charge of operating the water suction every time Ola does a filling, but she supposes that is her job. It’s mundane, and sometimes March refocuses on the patient’s face, remembering they’re a person all over again, but they’re usually zoning out or staring at the TV, vacant from the outside. She knows it’s normal, but there’s also something unsettling about it.

Mostly, she just wants to do the fillings herself. It’s not like it’s _hard_.

“Alright,” Ola says, once the patient is checking out up at the desk. She peels off her latex gloves and drops them into the waste bin. “I’m not scheduling you for another patient until 12:45, so you can start your lunch break now if you’d like.”

It’s a little strange, working for someone she’d graduated with, but March respects Ola and definitely prefers her to the middle-aged guy who she’d worked with at a different dental office last year. “Okay,” she says. “See you in a bit.”

March doesn’t actually work for Ola, of course; Ola’s only been out of college for three years, just like March, and she hasn’t had time to open her own dental office. Bolaji Family Dentistry is owned by Ola’s parents, but she probably _is_ going to take it over someday, unless she opens her own place first. Still, she’s March’s supervisor while March is on shift.

As for March’s career, she just hopes that after she’s worked here another couple months, she’ll get to do some of the real dental work. But that’s barely on her mind today.

She packed her own lunch today, a homemade enchilada and a nectarine. For a few minutes she uses her phone to go on the local zoos’ websites, checking just in case there are any new job postings -- she’s sure April is looking too, but it never hurts to double-check. She’s only alone for a short time, though, and then she puts her phone down to be polite. Today her co-worker Julie is on break at the same time as she is, and March tries to pay attention as Julie talks about her weekend plans. 

March nods, and smiles, and makes some noises like “Oh!” and “Mm-hm,” but she knows it’s not the most convincing performance. As she’s staring out the window, a smile growing while Julie describes the brewery she and her boyfriend will be going to, March tunes out for a little bit and only realizes it when she looks over to see Julie staring at her, eyebrows raised. 

She’s been caught.

“Are you feeling okay, March?” Julie asks. “You seem kind of out of it, hon.” 

March can’t help but smile, her face flushing with giddy excitement. “Yeah.” She sits up straighter, makes sure Julie is really paying attention. “So, you know April?”

“Yes, hon, I know April,” Julie says, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. 

March leans in closer, grinning because she literally can’t stop. “I’m proposing to her. Really, really soon.”

“Oh my god!” Julie shrieks, almost spilling her water as she flings her arms around March in an awkward sitting-down hug, and March laughs.

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


“You’re absolutely disgusting,” Marty informs him, and Evan doesn’t bother looking up from the crossword puzzle he’s working on.

Yep, he does crossword puzzles now. If his high school self could see him now, he’d be super disgusted. 

At least he gets to wear a tie to work and look like a baller, though. _Accountant_ isn’t exactly the coolest job title, but he’s making bank, at least for someone finishing up their first year after college. The first few months might have been a series of horrifying 70-hour weeks, but things have gotten more under control now, so Evan doesn’t, like, totally hate his job.

They even let him take the day off so he could help his new roommate move in. Get his apartment ready and stuff.

Which is why Marty’s here, cleaning out Evan’s fridge -- literally cleaning it, not eating Evan’s food -- and Evan is being a lazy trash friend and sitting on the sofa doing crossword puzzles like a nerd.

“Dude,” Marty says. “Was this cheese? At some point?”

Evan glances up. “Oh, yeah. But, like, vegan cheese?”

Marty stares at him.

“I saw a documentary, dude. We all have to be vegans or we’ll, like, die. I was gonna be a vegan, but all their food sucks, so I never actually ate it. That was back in, like, March, though, so maybe you should throw it away.”

“Dude,” Marty says again, but he just drops the moldy fake-cheese in the trash. 

Evan finishes his crossword, then gets up and stretches his arms out, rolling his shoulders. “I should probably, like, vacuum Puppy’s room or something. Shit, gotta get my old stuff off the floor first. Ugh.”

Marty gives him a look that somehow contains the message _You’re my friend, but you’re also the worst person I’ve ever met._ “He’s gonna be here in, like, two hours. How have you not -- whatever. Just. _Dude._ ”

“I got busy,” Evan says defensively. He was watching Planet Earth last night, and he gets way in the zone when he’s watching nature shit. 

Marty rolls his eyes. Then he gets this look on his face, like he’s going to say something he knows will piss Evan off, so Evan hightails it for Puppy’s room and shuts the door before Marty can make things weird. That’s one of Marty’s five or six talents, and Evan isn’t here for it today. 

He’s already stressed enough as it is. Plus there’s cleaning to do, or whatever.

There’s actually not that much stuff in here for him to clean up, because Evan isn’t a _total_ fuckup, no matter what Marty thinks. He kicks some of his dirty clothes toward the door, gathers everything up in his arms to make a small pile. 

He’s just about to go back out to grab the vacuum from the hall closet when the door opens. Marty drags the vacuum in for him, then keeps his hand on it, a stubborn expression on his face. “Evan.”

“Christ, what do you want?” Evan snaps, like Marty isn’t doing him a huge favor by helping him clean up the place. Whatever -- Evan’s the kind of guy who’s constantly marveling at the fact that his friends keep him around despite the fact that he’s immeasurably douchey. It’s their fault, really, for putting up with it. 

Marty grabs his elbow and makes him sit down on the futon that’s going to be Puppy’s bed, which Evan takes as a sign that this is about to get way more personal than he’s willing to tolerate, and he crosses his arms and tries to look as unimpressed as he can. “Are you and Puppy fighting?” Marty asks.

Evan doesn’t have much of a story prepared, which in hindsight is really stupid of him. “Not really,” he says, drawing those three syllables out as long as possible to give himself time to think. “Why?”

“Dude,” Marty says in exasperation, and Evan really needs to record him saying that so it can just be his personal ringtone on Evan’s phone already. “You used to be attached at the fucking hip. Now he’s moving in with you after he’s been in California for a _year_ , and you don’t even seem excited. You barely even told anyone it was happening. Obviously that’s weird for you, so don’t look at me like I’m making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Well, you kind of are,” Evan says. He shrugs a little, tries to look nonchalant. “You’re acting like I was supposed to throw a party or something.”

“But, like, that’s kind of what I’m saying,” Marty says. “I totally would have expected you to throw a party. Your best friend moving in with you after you haven’t seen him in person for a year? That’s, like, the exact perfect reason to throw a party.”

Evan gets up from the futon and moves to plug in the vacuum. Hopefully Marty will get the hint and go find something else to do. “We were best friends in college. Doesn’t mean we still are.” He sees how horrified Marty looks at that, and rolls his eyes. “Like you said, I haven’t seen him in a year. It’s not a big deal. But, like, I’m sure it’ll be great when he moves in, okay? I just don’t have to be running around freaking out about it.” 

“Okay,” Marty says. He’s kind of saying it like Evan’s a dumb kid who needs to be humored so he doesn’t have a temper tantrum, though, which is annoying. “But Puppy’s excited to be back here, right?”

“Dunno,” Evan says. “Haven’t talked to him.”

Marty looks surprised for a second, but then the expression leaves his face like it was never there in the first place. “Cool. Well, your apartment is a nasty, unsanitary mess, and _you_ might not have any pride in your home, but I’m not letting Puppy move in when it looks like this. After you’re done vacuuming, wanna clean the bathroom?”

“Nope,” Evan says. Because he’s immeasurably douchey.

“Okay, I’ll clean the bathroom and you Windex everything shiny, okay? Jesus Christ.”

Evan rolls his eyes again, waits for Marty to leave the room. Then he grits his teeth, turns off his brain, and turns on the vacuum. 

He hates seeing his apartment getting cleaner, is the thing. It’s making everything real, a reminder that things are changing, and Evan’s starting to realize that he might be getting himself into something he can’t actually handle.

The floor was, like, super dirty, though. He looks at the vacuum filter when he’s done and wrinkles his nose at how full it is from just this one room. “Gross.”

He leaves the vacuum in the hallway, turns on some Aretha Franklin, and goes into the bathroom, where he pokes Marty in the back over and over until he moves out of the way so Evan can grab the Windex. “You missed a spot,” Evan says over his shoulder as he leaves, and laughs when Marty slams the door on him.

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


Puppy likes having a zebra-print suitcase, even when it means he gets a lot of weird looks, because having a zebra-print suitcase means it’s super easy to find it when he’s waiting at the luggage carousel and all the other suitcases look the same. 

Unfortunately, he has, like, three suitcases, and the other two are super boring, so he ends up standing around with his zebra-print suitcase, watching a bajillion black suitcases go past him and having no idea which ones are his.

By the time Ransom and Camilla find him, he’s been able to use the process of elimination to find his second suitcase, since almost all the other luggage has been grabbed at this point, but he still has no idea which one is his third suitcase.

“Just grab one, open it, and see if it’s your stuff,” Camilla suggests.

“I can’t do that!” Puppy whispers, scandalized. “I might see someone else’s underwear. Or their sex toys or whatever. And then I’ll have to make eye contact with them when they take it back from me and I’ll _die_.”

“Whatever,” Ransom says, “I’ll do it.” And he grabs a brown suitcase off the carousel. 

“Ransom, noooo,” Puppy complains, and he knows he’s being way too loud, but Ransom isn’t listening to him. “My suitcase is black, what are you even doing. Put it back.”

“The tag says Peter Coleman,” Ransom says smugly. “I’ll put it back if you really want me to, though.”

Puppy comes over and crouches down to examine the tag for himself, as if Ransom could have somehow read it wrong. “Huh. Guess I have a brown suitcase.” 

“Okay, Pups,” Camilla says, in that voice that says she thinks he’s stupid but at least it’s endearing. “You ready to get going?”

“Yeah, sure,” Puppy says. He lets each of them wheel one of his boring suitcases while he pulls along the zebra one. “It’s not my fault that all suitcases look the same. Maybe I’m a little color-blind.”

“Maybe,” Ransom says. 

Puppy steps on the back of one of Ransom’s Adidas velcro sandals, which he’s wearing with tube socks like a douchebro. A beautiful, incredibly lovable douchebro. “I just need stuff that’s easier to recognize. That’s the real problem.”

“Want me to buy you a new suitcase as a present?” Camilla asks sweetly. She thinks she’s subtle when she’s teasing him, but Puppy’s going to actually get a new suitcase out of this if he plays his cards right, so it’s fine. 

“My birthday’s in, like, two months, is all I’m saying. Buy me the gayest suitcase you can find.”

Camilla’s eyes light up. “Challenge accepted.”

They get into Ransom’s car, which is actually a green minivan because he’s transforming into a soccer mom before Puppy’s very eyes, and Ransom waits until they’ve buckled their seatbelts before he starts the engine. “It’s really good to see you again, Puppy,” Ransom says once they’re moving, and it’s so nice to be around old friends who love him all the way through that Puppy might actually cry.

He doesn’t cry, though, because he’s twenty-three now, and he’s decided that crying in front of other people might have been cool when he was twenty-two, but probably not anymore. “Yeah, I missed you guys. Didn’t miss the weather, though.” He exaggerates a shudder. “I might move back once winter comes.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Camilla says, ignoring Ransom’s immediate, loud Game of Thrones reference. “Like we didn’t have some of the most fun we’ve ever had when it was snowing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Puppy says. “Snow is evil. And cold.”

Ransom laughs, which is kind of impressive considering that he’s in the middle of merging onto the freeway. He’s clearly made some personal growth since Puppy saw him last, because the old Ransom probably wouldn’t even have let them talk while he was merging. “Puppy, I remember when you had so much fun learning to ice skate and you were singing that song from Charlie Brown the whole time. You _love_ snow.”

“I literally fell through the ice! What are you talking about?” Puppy demands as Ransom and Camilla snicker. 

“Technically, only one of your legs fell through the ice. The rest of you stayed dry,” Camilla says. “And Evan helped you pull your leg out, which I thought was very valiant of him, and then Bitty gave you hot chocolate and Nursey kissed your nose. See? You love snow. Happy memories.”

“Whatever,” Puppy says. “The only good thing about winter is Christmas. And I can celebrate that indoors just fine.”

Ransom brightens up, which is saying something considering how chipper he already was. “Oh! Maybe now that you’re back, Evan will stop being such a scrooge for Christmas. I heard that he didn’t have a tree or anything this year. You have seven months to get him in the festive spirit, Puppy. We’re counting on you.”

“Right,” Puppy says, even as his stomach tightens. 

“Hey, remember when we made those super good cookies right before Christmas senior year?” Ransom asks. “Well, my senior year. Your junior year.”

“I wasn’t even there,” Camilla says mournfully. “I’m too old.”

Puppy does remember. Bitty had taken charge with the cookies, but Dex, Marty, and Whiskey had done a good job working support for him. “Yeah. Those were so good. I saved some and used them to get some dick later, actually.”

“Puppy! You didn’t tell me that,” Ransom says, as Camilla cheers (two years late, but whatever) for Puppy’s dedication to getting laid. “Did you use the ones Evan made for you? Cause that would have been really appropriate.” 

That’s -- Puppy doesn’t know what Ransom means by that, but his heart is starting to race. “Why?” he manages to get out, probably at a higher octave than normal.

“Don’t you remember?” Ransom grins over his shoulder, apparently not noticing Puppy’s discomfort. “Evan frosted your cookies all special since it was right after you came out. The rainbow frosting?”

“That’s too fucking precious,” Camilla says. “You guys are going to be the sweetest roommates, I can tell. Please say I can visit.”

“You can visit,” Puppy says. He feels nervous, suddenly. He grabs his phone and checks to see if Evan’s texted him at all today. 

Nothing. 

Which is fine. 

“I can’t wait,” Camilla says. “It’ll be like watching little baby ducklings at the zoo. Only with more Ray-Bans and snapbacks.”

“You look at baby ducklings at the zoo?” Ransom asks. “Is that right by the squirrel exhibit?”

Puppy leans forward, rests his chin on Camilla’s shoulder, and laughs at her and Ransom’s dumb jokes for the rest of the drive. He doesn’t check his phone.

  


  


  


The apartment is bigger than Puppy had expected, but that’s probably because rent is so much cheaper in Boston than it is in San Francisco. He knows that Evan’s always had a knack for finding a good deal, too, so he shouldn’t have been surprised. 

He’s a little surprised to see Bitty and Marty waiting for them in the living room, though.

Bitty barrels into him, wrapping him up in a warm hug. “Puppy! Do you need help bringing anything else in?”

“Nope, we’ve got it all,” Puppy says, smiling down at him. 

“He packed light,” Ransom grins, holding onto Puppy’s apparently-brown suitcase.

Marty pulls Puppy out of Bitty’s arms and messes up his hair. “My long-lost son! Dude, I’ve missed you. Wanna see your room?”

“Sure,” he says, and follows Marty down the hall. He feels bad, in a weird way, for not having more stuff. Camilla, Ransom, Bitty, and Marty are all ready to help him move in, and he doesn’t even have anything for them to carry. “Where’s Evan? Still at work?”

“Nah,” Marty says, and opens a door, gesturing for Puppy to go inside. “He’s around here somewhere. Bathroom, maybe. Anyway, here’s your room! Got a little futon-bed for you and everything.” 

Puppy beams and looks around. It’s a nice room, even if he can tell just from breathing in that it probably hasn’t been dusted in, like, ten years. There’s way more floorspace than he’s used to, and he’ll have to figure out a way to fill it up. But that’s a problem for later. “That’s so awesome! I’m glad Evan has so much furniture already, that makes everything way easier.”

“Yeah, Evan, why do you have so much furniture?” Marty demands, and Puppy turns to see that Evan has stepped out of the bathroom to join them. 

His hair looks messy, in a nice way. It’s longer than the last time Puppy saw him, like Evan probably needs a haircut, thick and brown and resisting whatever gel Evan put in it this morning.

Evan shrugs. “Garage sales, bro. It’s all super cheap.”

“That’s a good way to get termites,” Camilla says, chipper as can be and dragging Puppy’s black suitcase down the hall.

“Thanks, Camilla. Good input.” Evan smiles in Puppy’s direction, flushing a little, and Puppy turns around to take the suitcase from Camilla, pulling it into his new room and almost tipping over when it catches on the carpet. 

Ransom brings both of Puppy’s other suitcases to his room right after, leaving Bitty and Marty looking cranky because they have nothing to do. “Sweet place,” Ransom comments, depositing the suitcases on the floor next to the futon. “You guys had better invite us around more, now that Puppy’s here too.”

Evan gives Ransom a dirty look.

“Not that you’re not fun to hang out with, too, Evan. Obviously.”

“I mean, you’re not always that fun, if we’re being honest,” Camilla says. “But it’s cool. Puppy, can we help you unpack some of your stuff? I bet you’d be really bad at organizing, but it’s, like, my passion.”

Puppy doesn’t have to think about it. He already knows he has no idea where he’s going to put any of his stuff. “I mean, I guess. If you really want to.”

“Yay,” Camilla says softly, and she attacks his suitcases. 

Bitty sighs from the doorway. “ _Y’all._ What am I supposed to do? I didn’t even get to carry a suitcase.”

Evan shrugs, shooting the beginnings of a sly smile in Puppy’s direction, just like they used to do. “Marty already helped me clean up almost everything before you got here, but if you want to feel like you’re pitching in, you could always vacuum the couch. I don’t think we did that.”

“Oh!” Bitty says, brightening right up. “I’m on it.”

“Thanks, Bitty!” Puppy yells after him. Marty gives Evan a very judgey look.

The others run out of things to help with pretty quickly, and they meet around Evan’s -- and Puppy’s, now -- kitchen table. They share the brownies Bitty had brought over, and Bitty makes sure that Puppy sets aside a few extra to save for later, since he made them especially as a welcome home present for Puppy.

“Yum,” Ransom says, sucking chocolate off his fingers. “Holster’s gonna be so pissed he couldn’t make it.”

“Oh, here,” Bitty says, and takes the last brownie from the pan. “Save this one for him. Evan, you’ve got Ziploc bags or something around here, right?”

“Sure,” Evan says. “I’ll go pack it up.” He takes the brownie out of Bitty’s hand and heads into the kitchen and out of sight, where Puppy can’t imagine the brownie is going to survive much longer.

“Wait, I’ll help too,” Ransom says, and almost turns his chair over in his hurry to join Evan in the kitchen. 

Puppy giggles at the crestfallen expression on Bitty’s face, who must be realizing that Holster will never see that brownie. “These are so good, Bitty, thank you,” he says. “You’re the best.”

Bitty turns a little pink, like Puppy knew he would, but his smile isn’t as shy as it used to be. “It was my pleasure.”

“Alright,” Ransom says, coming back out of the kitchen. “We’ll get out of your way now so you can settle in, Puppy, but don’t forget that you’re coming out for drinks with everyone tonight, okay?”

“Okay,” Puppy says. He watches Evan trail out of the kitchen after Ransom. There’s a tiny smudge of fudge in the corner of his mouth, and it’s very distracting. 

Camilla kicks him under the table. It’s light and playful, and her expression looks easy, unworried, but Puppy flinches anyway. “Try to get there by seven, okay?” She looks from Puppy to Evan. “I know you’re both notorious for showing up late, but you don’t want to miss happy hour. Trust me.”

“Cool,” Puppy says. He watches as they push in their chairs, load their plates in the dishwasher. “Where’s the place? Is it nearby?”

“Oh, yeah,” Marty says. “We go there all the time. Evan can tell you about it.”

“Cool,” Puppy says again, maybe a little faintly, and he hugs them all goodbye even though he’ll be seeing them again in a few hours. Evan stays back, rolling his eyes good-naturedly when Camilla harasses him into a completely one-sided hug. 

Then everyone else is gone. 

Puppy wishes Evan had talked to him when the apartment was full of people, because now it feels like they’re off to the most awkward start possible, and he doesn’t know what to say.

Not knowing what to say has never stopped him from saying anything, though, so Puppy forces a smile onto his face. “Hey, Evan.”

“Hey,” Evan nods, and Puppy is forced to acknowledge that he had actually been looking forward to hearing Evan say his name, and now he feels a little hollow at the disappointment. “You need a hand with anything else?”

“Uh. No.” In truth, Puppy is a total mess when it comes to, like, every practical matter that exists, but he doesn’t even know enough to identify what he might need help with. “Maybe give me a quick tour?”

Evan methodically points out the TV, the basket where the remote is, the dishwasher, and some of the basics in the kitchen. He tells Puppy where the best place to do laundry is, which is kind of a bummer because it’s not in the building, and then they’re left standing a few feet apart and not making eye contact. 

“You want a fan?” Evan asks, seemingly out of the blue.

“Huh?”

“You know, a fan. I have an extra one that we can plug in by your bed. It gets really hot in here during the summer, and the AC doesn’t really work that well.”

Puppy waits while Evan takes a fan from where it was in the kitchen and brings it into Puppy’s room. Then he follows Evan in, watches as he plugs it into an outlet by Puppy’s bed and painstakingly angles it just right. 

“I think that’s good,” Evan says, and he seems happier than he’d been before. He even gives Puppy a real smile.

Puppy can’t help but smile back. “You’ve still got brownie on your face, by the way,” he says, and laughs when Evan starts scrubbing at his chin. “No, not there.” He almost wants to just wipe it from the corner of Evan’s mouth himself, watching Evan’s unsuccessful efforts to find it, but he pushes that thought away. “Dude, just go look in the mirror or something. You look dumb.”

Evan laughs and shoves at him, and Puppy lets himself get knocked around for a second just because it feels good. “ _You’re_ dumb,” Evan says. “Who the fuck only has three suitcases of shit? You’re, like, a sad hobo person.”

“Whatever,” Puppy says, and he feels all warm under his skin. This is how they’re supposed to be, and it’s nice to know they can still do it. “You’re the one with food on your face.”

“Right,” Evan says, like Puppy’s lying about it or something. He smiles at Puppy, and Puppy smiles bigger, and Evan keeps smiling until he must decide that smiling’s super boring, because he shakes it off and moves away. “I’m gonna go chill for awhile. You’ll be ready to leave around 6:40?”

Puppy nods. “Yep.” He watches as Evan starts walking toward the door. “Now go wash your face.”

Evan shakes his head at him, but he does let himself smile again, just for a few seconds. “Bye, Puppy.”

Puppy wishes it didn’t feel so good to hear that. He shuts the door behind Evan when he leaves. The room feels empty and quiet, and there’s still a weird amount of extra space, and he doesn’t actually know where Camilla put most of his stuff. 

He flops down on the futon-slash-bed and tries not to think about Evan saying his name. Because that would probably make him a creepy roommate, and Puppy is going to be a totally cool roommate.

Totally.

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


April’s store manager had mentioned, at the beginning of April’s shift, that she might want to work on her customer service skills. She’d grimaced in response, because she has instituted a personal ban on smiling while she’s working at Starbucks, and now that she’s well into her shift, April is back to glowering at everyone and everything.

Honestly, though, she usually considers this particular facial expression more _neutral_ than pissy, but one of her annoying high school co-workers had once informed her that she glowered at everyone, and April doesn’t care enough to argue with that assessment. 

She is extraordinarily ill-suited to work at Starbucks. She wants to deal with science, to analyze behavioral patterns and solve problems. She wants to work at a fucking zoo, using her fucking degree and her actual fucking brain.

Starbucks isn’t quite doing it for her. Neither is her other job at a local bookstore, although that one is at least slightly less hectic, which is another way of saying it’s boring. 

April wipes down the counter while there’s a momentary pause in customers. She thinks about sweeping the floor, but that seems like too much work, especially when no one’s telling her to do it. She checks the trashcans, but none of them are full yet.

God, she hates this job. 

The door opens, and April sees a familiar blonde head, a familiar red flannel, and she breaks her no-smiling-at-Starbucks rule.

Then the woman turns to face the counter, and it’s not March. Just some other tall blonde with a red flannel, and April scowls again. 

“April, go on break,” her manager says, and April stops scowling as she clocks out. 

She’s working a shorter shift today, so she only gets a fifteen minute break. She tucks herself away in the back room, unwilling to spend another minute in the store area with its loud customers and dreary guitar-boy music. Gnawing on the granola bar she’d packed, April checks the messages on her phone. A quick check-in from March, a link to an article she’s not going to read from her brother, and a new voicemail. 

It’s from a contact she’d just saved as “!!!!!” and is over two minutes long. April can feel her pulse picking up speed before she even presses play.

She’d had a good feeling the moment she saw the message was two minutes long, and she was right. It’s a job offer. Not just any job offer, but from one of the best zoos in Massachusetts.

Alone in the back room, April bounces up and down in her plastic chair, then grins up at the ceiling. She doesn’t even know who to text first. 

She sits there longer. She puts her phone back down.

Her smile fades.

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


The piece looks like shit, and Lardo doesn’t think she can save it. She’s already painted over the mass of blue-green paint on the right side of the canvas too many times, never getting the hue quite right. If she keeps going the texture’s going to be fucked up beyond repair, but the coloring still looks off and she doesn’t want to leave it like this.

She doesn’t think there’s any point to continuing. And that goes for more than just this stupid, failed piece. 

It’s been a long time since she had anything to eat or drink, at least she thinks it’s been, so Lardo gets up and pours a glass of water. Standing in the kitchen just makes her more depressed, since she has to look at the huge pile of dirty dishes that she still hasn’t dealt with, so she goes and lies facedown on the living room carpet for awhile. 

She can afford a two-bedroom apartment by herself because she’s living in the absolute shittiest section of the city. It doesn’t bother her anymore -- apart from going to and from work, she doesn’t actually go outside much. 

Back when she first chose this apartment, she had thought it was important to have a second bedroom that could be converted to an art studio. That was when she’d still felt a sense of promise over her life, that she was going to make it as an artist.

She doesn’t know why she’s still trying. 

Lardo hears her phone go off, like it’s been doing for the past hour. She usually ignores calls and texts while she’s working on her art. She usually ignores them when she’s not working on her art, too; it’s taking more and more energy to talk to her old friends, and she never feels like she has anything to offer when they actually get together. 

She reads the last few texts anyway. It looks like Puppy Coleman’s moving back; she can’t remember where he’d been living before this. Somewhere far away. They want her to join them for dinner tonight, a welcome-back thing for Puppy. 

Maybe she’d go if she had more advance notice. That’s what Lardo tells herself, anyway, and she texts the groupchat, giving the excuse that she already has plans. 

Well -- she does, kind of. Her plans are to breathe in the mildewy carpet for a little longer, to maybe eat some corn chips so she doesn’t starve, and to start over on a new canvas. 

Lardo stays on the carpet for an interminable amount of time, then decides, once her mind has returned to this plane of existence, that she can eat after she works on painting a little longer. It’ll be a reward for actually accomplishing something. 

She’s staring at her old canvas, deciding that she’s actually going to keep going and just remix the colors she’ll use around the blue-green section to better complement the shade it is right now, when she hears a knock at the door. 

That doesn’t happen -- no one ever comes here; no one ever knocks on the door. Lardo vaguely wonders if someone’s trying to rob her, or maybe attack her. She sits on the floor next to her ugly canvas and tries to wait this person out.

Two minutes pass, and the person doesn’t stop knocking. It crosses Lardo’s mind -- almost lost amidst the repetitive thought that she’s going to die -- that she should check her phone and see if someone she knows is asking to come in. But her phone’s in the living room, and whoever’s at the door would be able to see her through the window if she went in there. 

As Lardo waits longer, starting to feel genuinely scared, she thinks she hears someone yelling at the door. Over the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears, the voice sounds female -- Lardo waits to hear it again, until she’s sure, and then she decides to go check who it is. Women don’t scare her, and now Lardo thinks she hears her name being shouted by someone who sounds very annoyed. 

She picks up her phone anyway, and grinds her teeth when she sees that she has nine unread messages. All from the same person. 

“Oh, hi,” Camilla says when Lardo pulls the door open. “I was starting to think you’d been eaten by your cats.”

“I don’t have any cats,” Lardo says. She doesn’t know what else to say.

Camilla looks around the living room as she steps in. Lardo tries not to feel embarrassed at the stacks of paper and dirty clothes lying on almost every surface. This is why she doesn’t like having people over; she hates seeing the apartment from their point of view. “Come out with us tonight,” Camilla says, and Lardo should have guessed that’s why she’s here. 

“I’m --” Now that Camilla’s here, now that she sees Lardo’s life, it feels like too ridiculous a lie to say she’s busy. “Why?”

Camilla grins, sharp and almost too white. “So we can see you, duh! C’mon, go brush your hair or something. Put some shoes on.”

Lardo doesn’t want to go, but she doesn’t think she’ll be able to get Camilla out of her apartment unless they’re leaving together. “My hair’s fine,” is all she says, but she goes to comb it anyway so the old team doesn’t think she’s depressed.

“Sure it is,” Camilla says in that fake-agreeable way she has. Lardo ignores her. She puts on more deodorant and sprays herself with a little of this Bath and Body Works fragrance she’s had for a million years, because it’s been a few days since she showered. 

When Lardo leaves the bathroom, Camilla’s peeking into her art studio. “You ready?” Lardo asks irritably, and Camilla jerks her head back.

“I can drive,” Camilla says. 

Lardo slides her well-worn sandals on, notes that they’re starting to fall apart. “I’ll follow you in my car.”

Camilla doesn’t argue. She doesn’t have to; she’s already gotten what she wants.

  


  


  


It’s a bit awkward, seeing Camilla again.

They were together, once. During Lardo’s junior year at Samwell, when Camilla was a senior and everything about her lit Lardo up from the inside, but that all ended pretty soon after Camilla graduated. 

The breakup was mutual, and Lardo thinks it was well-deserved -- Lardo had thought Camilla was needy, which she was; Camilla had thought Lardo was uncommitted, which she was. 

Now, looking at Camilla as they walk to where their cars are parked in the street, Lardo thinks that if life itself is a competition after you break up with someone, Camilla’s winning by a landslide.

  


  


  


Lardo pulls into the parking lot; it’s a spot she’s gone to with the rest of the old team a couple times before, but she usually finds an excuse to stay out of it when they all go out together. She thinks about rolling her eyes when Camilla pulls into the parking space directly next to her own, but she just gets out of the car and checks her wallet instead.

“Ready to party?” Camilla says, coming up beside Lardo and offering her elbow like they’re in a movie.

Camilla does have a way of teasing, almost mocking people, in a way that she sells with a smile and a face that’s predisposed to looking innocent. Lardo’s skin prickles. She knows when she’s being condescended to and when she’s being made fun of. It doesn’t matter that there’s something about it that turns her on; it’s still annoying. She ignores Camilla and starts walking.

“I like the Kim Possible look you’re rocking,” Camilla says, almost running to catch up with her. “Very chic.”

Lardo glances down despite herself. She _is_ wearing a black shirt and green cargo shorts, and in this weather that’s the closest she’s going to get to Kim Possible. “Just because I’m here doesn’t mean you need to talk to me,” she says, because when she doesn’t know what to say she aims for sounding aloof. 

She was probably better at doing that without being an asshole about it during college. She was better at a lot of things during college. 

“Nope,” Camilla agrees, in that smug tone that makes Lardo want to yell at her and also want to be _slightly_ manhandled by her, “I just do that because you’re _so_ fun to talk to.”

When they get to the long table where the whole group is being served, Lardo grabs a chair on the opposite end from Puppy. Everyone’s going to want to welcome him back -- she herself is going to need to go over there eventually, even if just for a few seconds -- and it’s going to be loud, and crazy, and way too much for her to handle. So she sits down across from Marty, who she doesn’t know well and who’s likely to leave her alone, because it’s a seat on the very edge of the table. The only other open chair is on the opposite side of the table, right in the middle of the group, and Camilla takes a seat there without another word to Lardo.

Unfortunately, this spot puts Lardo directly next to Holster and diagonally across from Chowder. Lardo loves them, still, even if it’s been over a month since she last talked to either of them, but between the two of them she’s not sure if she’ll be able to survive the tidal wave of enthusiasm and personal questions.

“Lardo!” Holster yells as she’s sitting down, because he’ll keel over on the spot if he doesn’t yell. “Where the fuck have you been?”

“Yay! Lardo’s here!”

She gives her most natural-looking smile. “Busy. Working, plus, you know, art. Time flies.”

“Lardo,” Chowder says, in as close to a whisper as he can when he’s surrounded by loud Samwell grads, “let me see your art? I won’t tell anyone you showed me.”

“Fuck off, Chow, I already said no one can see it until it’s finished.” She fake-glares at him and he grins back.

Holster shows her the best deals on the menu, since she rarely comes here and the server only has time to stop by their table once in a while since it’s so busy. After Lardo orders, Holster elbows her. “Dude, where have you _really_ been?”

“Yeah,” Ransom urges, leaning around his worse half to see her. “What have you been up to? It’s like you fell off the face of the earth or something!”

Lardo fake-laughs through it all and orders something off the cocktail menu called Death in the Afternoon. “I’ve been great,” she says. She’s going to get drunk tonight. “Ransom, you’re driving me home.”

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


Evan hasn’t felt this good in a while. For a whole year, maybe.

He’s only had one drink, so that’s not why. And it’s not like he hasn’t spent any time with his old college friends before -- Marty never gets out of his fucking hair, and Chad and Ola bug him more than he ever expected they would, and Ransom needles him into coming out for drinks with everyone, at least once in awhile. 

The truth is, he just feels more comfortable when Puppy’s around. 

Puppy’s drunk as hell now, actually. Which is why Evan’s only had one drink and isn’t having any more -- he’d predicted that Puppy would get totally trashed, and had insisted that he be the one to drive them tonight. 

So now Puppy’s playing with the straw in his margarita, because apparently he drinks margaritas now, and he’s _leaning_ on Evan. And it’s not like he never used to lean on Evan’s shoulder when he was drunk, or even when he was sober, but it’s a weird feeling when it’s been so long since they saw each other.

Since they were like this

But Puppy won’t get off of him, and it’s all that Evan can manage to make sure he looks annoyed by it. Puppy’s singing -- very softly, because Chad had glared at him earlier -- and he’s not even singing the right song, fumbling out the words to that one Beach Boys song even though “The Sound of Silence” is playing overhead.

“Are you gonna pass out on me?” Evan says. He can’t really see Puppy’s face at this angle.

“Hmm?” Puppy lets his song trail off. “Can I? Your shoulder’s really soft.”

Evan sees Ola giggling at him. That’s especially irritating because Ola almost never giggles, which means this is a dire situation. “Ouch, Pups,” is all he says. “I get it, I need to work out more.”

“Yeah,” Puppy says. He yawns a little, soft in Evan’s ear. “You’ve really let yourself go.”

“Hey!” Evan squawks, and Ola laughs harder.

Puppy giggles too. “I’m just kidding. You’re still really nice and muscle-y.” He slurps up more of his margarita. 

Ola raises her eyebrows at him, and Evan tries not to be unreasonably pissed at her. That would probably look weird. “Thanks so much, Peter,” he says instead, and focuses on eating the last of his french fries. 

He’s sitting mostly by Ola and Chad, and by Ransom and Holster, but they’re all in their little romantic-couple conversations -- well, apart from how Ola’s ignoring Chad to make annoying faces at him, and how Holster’s yelling down the table at Marty. Or maybe just yelling in his direction, it’s hard to tell with Holster.

So, the thing is, he needs to focus on Puppy, because everyone else around him is busy. And because he’s already kind of been a shitty roommate, getting things off to an unfriendly start -- which is _not_ what Puppy deserves, not at all -- and Puppy’s, like, in danger of falling out of his chair and getting hurt if Evan doesn’t keep an eye on him. 

“Can I have more food?” Puppy asks.

Evan stares at his plate. “I ate all mine, sorry.” He’s so not thoughtful; he should have remembered that Puppy always steals his food.

“I didn’t eat my chips yet,” Puppy mumbles into Evan’s neck, which feels weird and makes him shiver a little. He shrugs away. “Give them to me?”

“Uh, no.” Evan is very aware that he’s like, the most terrible friend in the world. “I kind of ate your chips earlier.”

“Oh,” Puppy says. 

He sounds so _sad_. Evan pulls away, catching Puppy’s arm before he can sway right onto the ground, and stares at him. “Puppy. Are you crying? Over your chips?”

“I’m hungry,” Puppy sniffles. 

Evan gives Ola an _I can’t believe this shit_ look for appearance’s sake, but he flags down their server and orders Puppy a half-size order of buffalo wings, because it’s technically his fault that Puppy’s still hungry. And because it’s probably a good thing for Puppy to keep eating when he’s so drunk.

By the time Puppy’s wings have arrived, Lardo, Chad, and Ola have already left for the night, and Bitty’s waiting for his check so he can head out too. “Eat fast,” Evan tells Puppy. “I don’t want us to be the last ones here.”

Puppy shoves one buffalo wing into his mouth and almost chokes on it. 

“Okay, not that fast,” Evan says. When Puppy looks like he’s thinking about falling asleep at the table, Evan guides him back onto his shoulder and eats the last two buffalo wings when Puppy’s not looking.

“I thought those were Puppy’s,” Ransom says. 

He’s teasing, but Evan feels irritated anyway. He just doesn’t like feeling like Ransom’s watching them. “I’m paying for them,” is all he says, and grits his teeth at how that might sound. 

A minute later he asks for the check. He figures he can just pick up Puppy’s tab too, as, like, a welcoming gift or whatever, so he just asks for one bill. 

“You’re so nice,” Puppy says, shifting a little. He blinks, and his eyelashes tickle against Evan’s skin. “You’re so cool.”

“Relax, it’s like forty dollars,” Evan says. He rolls his eyes, but it doesn’t seem like Ransom’s paying them any attention now.

Finally, they’re ready to go. Puppy’s good to walk once Evan pokes him a lot and makes him actually stand up, and then after Evan gives a quick wave goodbye to everyone, he has to wait for, like, ten minutes while Puppy wanders around the table and gives everyone way too many hugs. He practically sits in Ransom’s lap. 

By the time they’re _actually_ ready to go, Evan’s starting to get impatient and a little annoyed. “Anyone else you wanna hug?” he snaps as he guides Puppy out the front door, where there’s a guy sitting by the restaurant entrance holding a depressing sign. “Look, there’s a homeless guy you haven’t hugged yet.”

“You don’t have to be a dick,” Puppy says, and he does give the homeless guy a hug. Evan doesn’t think the dude is particularly into it, but he does have a sign that says _Totally desperate_ , which obviously makes Puppy sad. “Evan, I don’t have money.”

“Jesus Christ,” Evan mumbles. He pulls out his wallet anyway. The only cash he has is a ten, which sucks, but Puppy’s glaring at him and probably thinking he’s a terrible person and that he, like, hates homeless people, so he hands the ten dollar bill over even though it hurts a little. “Okay, have a good night. Puppy, let’s _go_.”

Puppy seems happy with him again, and keeps pulling on Evan’s arm as they walk up to his car. “Your car’s super boring, Evan,” he says. “It’s like --” He makes a noise that sounds kind of like _pllbbtt_.

“Yeah. It fits me.”

“ _No._ You’re way cooler than that, you should have a cool car.”

Earlier in the week, Evan had gone out and picked up the used car that Puppy had bought for himself ahead of time, had driven it to their apartment so it would already be there when Puppy moved in. It -- well, it wasn’t boring. That was one way to put it. It definitely fit Puppy. “Good idea, Puppy. I’ll think about it.”

“You’re full of shit,” Puppy says, but he’s smiling at Evan with the dumbest look in his eyes as Evan opens up the passenger door and helps him fasten his seatbelt. 

His breath smells like lime from the margaritas.

Evan straightens up and takes a step back. “Don’t puke in my car,” he warns. 

“Don’t puke in my car,” Puppy says back, like Evan’s being stupid, and Evan flicks him in the head before closing the door.

He goes around to the driver’s side and stands there for a second with his hand on the door handle. Breathes in the cool night air and gets his mind settled. 

Then he opens the door and slides in next to Puppy. “Alright, let’s get out of here.”

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


March gets home from work before April today. It’s a little inconsistent, with April’s varying hours, but on days when March is home first, that means she’s in charge of dinner.

It’s better this way, because while April has a few core recipes she’s very good with, March enjoys cooking more than April does, and she’s capable of a lot more variety in the kitchen. Tonight she goes the simple route, making pan bagnat -- April’s going to give her a grouchy look when she sees how many vegetables make an appearance in the sandwich, but it’ll be good for her. 

April comes home, and they eat together; April doesn’t complain like March thought she would, just hooks her feet around one of March’s ankles under the table and eats in contented silence. They load their dishes and start the dishwasher, and March stays behind to wipe down the kitchen counter while April gets Criminal Minds pulled up on Netflix. She dries her hands, spot-cleans her glasses, and joins April on the couch, squeezing in behind her so April can use her as a pillow.

“Hi, baby,” April says quietly, turning around so she can push the hair back from March’s face, moving her leg so it rests on top of March’s hip. “Missed you.” 

March closes her eyes and lets April kiss her forehead, feels April’s warm fingers tracing over the back of her neck. She doesn’t know how she got so lucky, to be the one person at the receiving end of all of April’s tenderness. Other people don’t get this from April; other people can’t even guess that this what April’s really like.

It’s all for March.

“I’m gonna pour some wine,” April says, and moves away and off the couch. March waits, and gets a little caught up in the episode -- something about a serial killer targeting women, like that’s original -- and jumps a little when April sets the wine glasses on the coffee table in front of her. “Boo,” April says, giggling a little, and March sits up so she can grab a glass.

“Hey, beautiful,” March says, already starting to feel sleepy even before the wine. She’s been working her ass off planning out the marriage proposal, figuring out every detail and possibility for error, and she’s ready for the weekend. 

“Shh,” April says, holding her own wine glass by the stem and propping her feet up on the coffee table.

They watch in silence, a mix of domestic bliss and violence-inspired horror, which is pretty much their ideal Friday night, and they don’t talk again until they’ve both finished their wine. “What do you want to do after this?” March whispers when the show’s being boring.

“Hmm,” is all April says, but the way she’s starting to move her hand up March’s side suggests that she does, in fact, have a few ideas.

“Let me know if you think of something,” March says. “We could go for a walk. Or have a cleaning party. Or go to bed early.”

“I think something involving the bed could be arranged,” April comments, and her fingers dig in for just a second.

March smiles, sets her empty wine glass down, and leans back. “Works for me.”

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


It had been a mistake, not putting Puppy straight to bed. 

But Puppy had sworn that he wanted to watch just one episode of Grey’s Anatomy, just wanted to eat half a bag of the stupid red licorice he loved so much and that Evan had been stupid enough to stock up on earlier in the week. And Puppy is always bossy, even if other people don’t usually catch on, but he’s a fucking _nightmare_ when he’s drunk.

“Mm,” Puppy says, and he’s so close to Evan on the sofa that he’s practically on Evan’s lap. “I’m so sleepy.”

“You have a bed,” Evan says faintly.

Puppy doesn’t move away, but turns his face to glare at Evan. “No. I’m not tired.”

His face is flushed pink from alcohol, and it’s obvious from the way he keeps scrunching up his eyebrows in concentration that he can’t quite get his vision to focus. Evan puts a hand on the side of Puppy’s face and pushes him away lightly. He laughs when Puppy almost topples right off the couch. “Puppy, you’re a mess.”

“I’m not going to bed,” Puppy half-yells, getting his balance and throwing himself back on top of Evan in what might be an act of defiance. “You can’t make me.”

Evan tries to avoid Puppy’s elbows, but it seems like Puppy’s suddenly grown ten of them, and they’re all jabbing into his ribs. “God, I’m not gonna _make_ you go to bed, calm down.”

“Oh, good,” Puppy says. He stays on Evans lap, leaning back against his shoulder, and Evan lets him because he’s stupid and Puppy’s drunk and it feels good. His stomach jumps a little when Puppy starts trying to hold his hand, though, and he pulls away. “Evan,” Puppy whines, “I wanna wrestle.”

“That’s -- no,” Evan says. 

“Then I’m gonna fall asleep on you,” Puppy warns, and nuzzles his face into Evan’s neck. “Oh, you smell nice. Garlic-y.”

Evan is affronted. “I don’t smell like -- whatever, get off of me. Come on.”

Puppy doesn’t show any sign of getting off, just wraps his arms tightly around Evan. 

“We could play Parcheesi,” Evan suggests hopelessly. He sits in silence for a minute, but he doesn’t actually want Puppy to fall asleep on him, so he tries to think of something he can say to keep Puppy awake. “Why’re you always so cuddly, huh?”

“‘Cause I love cuddling you, dummy.”

Evan rolls his eyes, but he slides one of his hands onto Puppy’s back, automatically tracing circles against it like he used to. “Well, I like cuddling you too. A little.” 

“ _More_ than a little,” Puppy threatens, and Evan laughs and kisses the top of his head without thinking.

It would be up there in the top five dumbest things Evan’s ever done if he wasn’t always doing dumb things. Still, he regrets it. He’d just wanted to smell Puppy’s familiar strawberry shampoo, but Puppy’s hair smells different now; he must have changed his shampoo.

Still -- “Do it again,” Puppy mumbles.

Evan ruffles his hair instead. “Okay, loser, let’s eat some real food, drink a little water, and then go to bed. Okay?”

Puppy lets Evan pry him off of him, then lets Evan pull him to his feet. “I’m not even drunk, though. My liver’s _got_ this.”

“Uh-huh,” Evan says, and he makes Puppy eat two slices of bread and drink a tall glass of water. He shepherds Puppy into the bathroom and makes him brush his teeth, ignores Puppy when he starts talking about putting on a clay mask that he probably hasn’t even unpacked yet, and lets Puppy lean on him when he brings Puppy into his new bedroom.

“Do you still sleep in t-shirts and shorts?” Evan asks. There’s just one dresser in the room, an old thing he’d got for ten dollars at a garage sale and that isn’t actually big enough to store all of Puppy’s clothes.

Puppy yawns. “Whatever.”

Evan can’t find any shorts for him, but he tosses Puppy a t-shirt. When Puppy’s ready for bed, wearing just the t-shirt and his briefs, Evan averts his eyes until Puppy’s under the covers. He grabs the pillow and hits Puppy’s face with it, laughing when Puppy tries to hit him back and misses completely. “Sleep tight,” he says. “Let me know if you need Advil in the morning.”

“I’m not even drunk,” Puppy insists again, and Evan shoves him a little.

He shuts the door behind him. Tries to think about something other than Puppy; fails completely.

One day in, and Evan’s already completely fucked.

  


  


  


Really, he’d been fucked the second he met Peter Coleman, back when he was just the kid moving into Evan’s room that first day in the freshman dorm. “Everyone calls him Puppy, so you can go ahead and call him that if you want,” Puppy’s mom had said, and Puppy had beamed at Evan, and Evan had thought this blonde kid was weird as fuck, but he also made Evan smile, like, three times a minute, which at the time was a personal record for Evan.

He learned -- within the first five minutes of meeting him -- that Puppy was an only child, that his father was a pastor in their tiny town with a population of 800 and his mom taught middle school, and that Puppy was trying to grow a fern.

“This is my third try, but I Googled it and I think I’ve got it this time,” Puppy had said, and the fern was dead within a week.

Evan felt like Puppy had too much skin, and too much blonde hair, and he smiled too much and he laughed too much and he was always wearing clothes that he looked _stupid_ in, and then Evan’s brain had kind of short-circuited the first time Puppy squeezed in next to Evan when Evan was stretched out on top of his bed. “You’ve got to see this video,” Puppy had said, and Evan didn’t really understand why Puppy thought it was normal to lie down with his entire side pressed up against Evan, but the video wasn’t very funny and he gave Puppy an unimpressed look afterward.

“Oh, you know Evan?” someone had asked Puppy at a party two months into their freshman year.

“Yeah, he’s my best friend,” Puppy had said, which was news to Evan, but when he thought about it later that night it seemed inevitable.

Puppy was always pouting whenever Evan kicked him out to hook up with girls, so Evan usually went back to the girls’ places instead.

He liked putting his hands on girls. He’d had a feeling for a few years that he might like putting his hands on boys, too, but he liked playing sports and having friends who were actually cool more than he liked the hypothetical idea of hooking up with a guy. He didn’t want his life to look like an episode of Glee, because that show sucked. 

Looking at boys was dumb, and irritating, and a secret. It was a problem, but kind of a minor problem because it was so irrelevant to his actual life. 

He liked girls better, anyway, so it didn’t actually matter.

It seemed like Puppy liked girls too, until he came back for junior year and, sometime in November, excitedly told anybody who would listen, “I’m, like, super gay now,” because people tended to be confused when he was suddenly spending the night with every same-sex oriented dude on campus after never showing any interest in guys before then.

“Dude, you haven’t slept in your actual bed in, like, a week,” Evan had said at the beginning of their senior year, because it was easier than saying _I miss you_. “Not judging you, but aren’t you _tired_?”

“I’m going through my slutty phase,” Puppy had explained patiently. “It’s an important part of my gay development.”

Evan had fucked plenty of girls, which was awesome, but he hadn’t done anything with a guy other than look and then pretend he wasn’t looking. He was, like, way behind in his sort-of-gay development, and he was more than happy to stay that way forever. 

Two weeks before Evan’s graduation, the team had planned a big party, but they’d had to cancel it the day of, because campus police were being super annoying and trying to get people in trouble for underage drinking and shit. 

So they’d had a lot of extra alcohol around the house. 

Puppy had snagged two cases of these gross apple-flavored wine coolers, and they’d locked the door for no reason and drank more than was probably safe, and when Evan was so wasted that he looked over and saw three Puppy Colemans instead of one, and all three of them were beautiful and happy and _perfect_ , he’d grabbed Puppy by the hair and crashed into him, biting at his mouth and letting Puppy stick his tongue down his throat.

It hurt, and he’d almost fallen over, and Puppy had pulled him onto the bed, where they got too sleepy to do anything more than wind their legs together and slide their hands under each other’s shirts and kiss, lazy and slow. Evan had rubbed Puppy’s hair between his fingers, and it was so soft that he almost started crying, and Puppy had tried to pull off Evan’s shirt but had gotten tangled up and fallen asleep before he could figure it out.

When Evan woke up, he hadn’t forgotten any of it.

Puppy woke up right after Evan did, mostly because Evan freaked out and started kicking at him to make him go away.

“Ow, are you okay --” Puppy had started to say, touching Evan’s shoulder, but Evan had shoved him away with more anger than he’d ever touched Puppy in their four years of knowing each other, ignoring the hurt look on Puppy’s face.

“Shut the fuck up,” Evan had said, staggering out of bed and already headed for the door. “Don’t talk to me.”

Puppy did talk to him, of course, because they were roommates and best friends and it would be weird not to, but he seemed sad all the time, at least for those last two weeks. Evan felt sad whenever Puppy was sad, but then he felt angry because technically it was all Puppy’s fault, probably, because Puppy did stuff like that all the time and Evan never did, and even if Evan had wanted to before it was still Puppy’s fault that he actually _did_ it.

Evan had sex with this girl from his math class in Puppy’s bed a few days later, which might have factored into why Puppy was so sad -- Evan didn’t actually tell him it happened, but he knew that Puppy knew. It didn’t really make Evan feel better, though, and he spent a lot of time in the kitchen, sitting at the table feeling grumpy. It worked because Dex did his homework in there, so they were like a grumpy, angry team, guarding the snacks and glaring at everyone.

He’d still hugged Puppy when they graduated, because it was a big deal. Puppy had hugged him back, then wandered off to talk to his other friends. 

Evan went home and played lacrosse with his old high school friends and helped them make their resumes less shitty, since he already had a job lined up. It turned out that his friends were still douchebags, but he figured he was the type of person who attracted douchebags. Puppy was one of those anomaly things. 

And then Puppy didn’t mention it to Evan before he moved to San Francisco. They weren’t talking much at that point anyway, though, and Evan didn’t ask him about it. 

He’s not sure he can handle Puppy being back. And Evan’s not sure what, exactly, he’s afraid will happen, but Puppy’s hair still looks soft, and he still feels the same when he’s leaning against Evan’s side, and this is going to be a disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you remember when I said I was sorry about Evan's personality. EVAN WYD
> 
> also tbh I didn't spend as much time editing this as I could have, but I imposed an August deadline on myself, and I had to get it out into the world..... whatevs


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Mature rating is earned in this chapter. I don't really write sex scenes as reader-porn, if that makes sense; more as a picture of what intimacy looks like for these particular characters, so it's not super descriptive or meant to put you in a spicy mood while you're reading ;)
> 
> \- at this point it's pretty much tradition for me to change the fic summary multiple times as I update....... just ignore it tbh

  


  


Saturday, June 19, 2018

  


  


April wakes up sweaty and bleary-eyed, and only barely manages to stumble out of bed without making enough noise to wake up March. She doesn’t have to go to work for several more hours, so she decides to skip a shower for now and leave March the hot water, since March is going out with her family soon.

She throws on a huge gray sweatshirt -- not sure if it’s actually hers or March’s at this point -- and shuts the bedroom door behind her. March’s alarm will be going off soon, but April can get things moving before then. 

Eggs in a frying pan, sugar sprinkled over grapefruit halves, cheap frozen waffles in the toaster. April never bothered trying grapefruit until March infected her with her old-lady eating habits, but now she has to admit it’s pretty good. April hears the shower turn on, checks the clock above the oven. This is going to be a fast shower for March, because she doesn’t have time for anything else.

As April puts the breakfast plates together -- a zero in terms of presentation, because she doesn’t give a fuck -- and pours two glasses of orange juice, she tries to form a plan. When does she tell March about the job offer? How can she explain that she’s already completed three rounds of interview, via phone and Skype, for a job that would require moving to a new city, and how does she explain why she never even told March?

It’s hard to even explain that to herself. Easier to explain back when she didn’t think she’d actually get the job -- she hates failure, and she’d dreaded telling March about the interviews if they would end with a rejection; she didn’t want to have the serious conversation about moving if it would all become pointless, if the zoo didn’t even want her.

But now it’s going to be a conversation. Unless April chickens out and tells them no, but that would be crazy. She has no real leads in Boston or the surrounding area, and she hates her current jobs so much that she barely has room to feel other emotions half the time.

She’s not starting this conversation now, though. Maybe later tonight. 

“Morning, babe,” March says, wandering in and wearing nothing but a fuzzy pink bathrobe. “Oh, you made breakfast?”

“Sure did,” April says, and spends a few seconds looking for the salt shaker before she realizes it’s right in front of her. 

March sits down, smiles up at April. “Thanks. I have to leave in forty minutes, so I’m gonna eat fast, okay? But it looks great.”

April rolls her eyes at March’s table manners and shoves a forkful of eggs in her mouth, and March laughs softly.

True to her word, March scarfs breakfast down at breakneck speed, leaving her plate in the sink before she rushes to get ready. April eats slower, then stands by the sink and looks out the window for awhile, lost in thought. She’s still hungry, but she doesn’t want to make more eggs. Probably she’ll just eat a huge bowl of cereal, even though March keeps buying this gross healthy stuff with granola. 

When March comes back into the kitchen, she’s wearing army-green shorts and a white blousy top, her hair half-up and falling down in waves. “Hey,” she says, in that tone of voice she uses when she’s trying to sound casual but really isn’t, “wanna go on a real date tonight? It’s been awhile.”

“Sure,” April says, smiling as she looks out the window again. “Where were you thinking?”

“You just let me work out all the details,” March says. She steps closer, tugs April toward her by pulling at the loose fabric of her hoodie, and kisses her on the head. “I’ll plan the whole thing.”

April smiles. “You got it.” She watches as March leaves, then glances down at the leafy plants growing near the window. “C’mon, March,” she mumbles. March never remembers to water her plants; April can see now that the dirt is parched dry. She used to water them for March all the time, but March keeps buying more and more and never waters them herself, so now April’s boycotting the whole situation. Hopefully after the first plant dies, March will put a reminder in her phone or something. April doesn’t want to enable her anymore in her reckless plant-ownership.

She starts cleaning up the kitchen, and she starts working on her “Oops, did I forget to mention the job in Mendon that I’ve been interviewing for?” speech. Which makes her feel like a shitty girlfriend, so she waters the plants to make up for it.

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


Lardo doesn’t mind getting up early to work the breakfast shift. Her real issue is that she’s not scheduled to work more than a few hours today, and she kind of needs the money. The morning regulars are fine, Lardo thinks, but it’s the _non-regulars_ who come in at 7:00 that really piss her off. They’re rude, and grouchy, and mean; she doesn’t know why they bother dragging themselves here if they can’t at least pretend to be morning people. Or why they can’t pull it together when she’s just trying to do her job as a server.

That said, there are never _that_ many customers in the restaurant before 9:00, so eventually things settle down and Lardo’s just bored. She checks on her tables just the right amount -- enough to look busy but not enough to annoy the customers, who actually don’t want her breathing down their necks -- and then continues to look busy by cleaning the empty tables, even though they’re already clean. Mostly, she doesn’t want her manager to think she’s being lazy. 

Lardo wipes tables down methodically, looking outside. She sees a family, parents smiling as they hold hands, kids running ahead and pushing each other while laughing. She sees a young woman talking on the phone with boundless energy, a young man smelling tulips at a flower stand like it means something.

She thinks she used to look like those people. Probably she used to feel like them, too. Now it’s like she sees them through a blurred screen, untouchable. 

That’s not a good thing to think about, so she stops looking outside. Lardo takes a lap around the restaurant floor, refilling coffee cups, and she doesn’t think or feel much for the rest of her shift.

It’s not a bad morning, all things considered.

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


It’s only 8:30 when Puppy wakes up, because -- as he now realizes -- there actually aren’t any curtains in his windows, and the cheerful morning light is shining right in his eyes, and it’s super not agreeing with Puppy’s hangover.

He sits up, drinks a little from the glass of water Evan must have left on his dresser, and takes note that his hangover actually isn’t as bad as he first thought. His throat feels scratchy, and he has a headache that’s more annoying than painful, but that’s nothing compared to what he’s used to.

Maybe he could fall back asleep, but Puppy vaguely remembers Evan smiling at him a lot last night, and since he’s sort of hopeless about Evan, he’d rather track him down and see if he’s still in a good mood than stay here and get more sleep.

Evan’s easy to find; it’s a two-bedroom apartment and there are only so many places he could be. Puppy shuffles into the kitchen and stops. Stares out into the living room, where Evan’s sitting by the coffee table, his brown hair sticking up in the back and a frown of concentration on his face.

He’s wearing gray sweatpants and an unfairly threadbare blue t-shirt, peering down at a jigsaw puzzle and blasting 6LACK from his phone speakers. Puppy doesn’t even know where to focus his eyes -- he wants everything when it comes to Evan, and this was supposed to _stop_ , and the feeling’s so heavy it’s like it’s physically weighing him down.

 _That’s fine_ , Puppy thinks, because he can totally handle this, and after letting the feeling wash over him for a few more seconds, he starts poking around for breakfast foods. He’d been way too overwhelmed to go grocery shopping yesterday, and he’s psyching himself up to eat the stupid healthy cereal and fruit that Evan eats for breakfast every day, but when Puppy glances at the kitchen counter he sees a plate of chocolate chip pancakes already set out.

They’re still warm, and he smears them with butter, watches it melt. “Evan!” he yells. “Did you make me pancakes?” It seems like an obvious question, but he won’t rule out the chance that Bitty stopped by or something.

Evan appears in the kitchen doorway. “Uh, yeah? That’s it, though. I know you like to eat, like, twenty things for breakfast, but unless you want cereal or oatmeal there’s not much else that’s real breakfast-y around here.”

“This is great,” Puppy says. “Thanks, Ev.” He never actually calls Evan that and was maybe trying to be a little cute, but it feels weird and he wishes he hadn’t said it. He takes a bite of the pancakes, and _damn_.

“It’s cool,” Evan says. He smirks a little, in that particular way he does when he’s trying not to laugh and his nose starts scrunching up. “I figured since you’d be doing all the cleaning shit around here, I can make pancakes once in awhile.”

“That’s real cute, Evan, ha ha,” Puppy says, sticking his tongue out. There’s a piece of chewed-up pancake on his tongue and Evan doesn’t even pretend to be grossed out, just rolls his eyes and goes back out to the living room.

Puppy could follow him -- it’s not like Evan’s the type of person who’d freak out if he ate on the couch -- but Puppy thinks it’s probably a good idea to get some space, to wake up more before he goes and sits by Evan and his stupid puzzle and his gross, adorable hair.

The pancakes are so perfect. Puppy tries not to feel inappropriately about the fact that Evan’s hands are the ones that made them, but it’s hard not to think about it. 

“Can I help?” he asks when he’s finally ready to join Evan by the coffee table.

“Sure,” Evan says. “It’s going to be a coral reef or whatever.” He points at the box, where Puppy can see the full illustration. It looks like Evan either just got started or is very bad at puzzles. “Wanna help me get the edge pieces first?”

Puppy looks at the box again. “No. That’s boring. I’m gonna find all the Nemo fishes.” 

Evan shrugs. “You should probably look for orange pieces, then.”

“I know that, I’m not stupid.” And if Evan could be super helpful and ignore the fact that Puppy accidentally called them _fishes_ , that would be great.

Evan shrugs again, fits two edge pieces together. “And they’re called clownfish, by the way.” He doesn’t look up, but Puppy can see his smirk.

“Wow, I never knew that,” Puppy snarks, and he knocks over a little row of edge pieces Evan already connected just so he can see Evan scowl at him.

Evan scowls at him.

Once Evan has forgiven him for being annoying, and once Puppy has successfully put together half a fish and feels like he’s good at puzzles, they find things to talk about. They go over their favorite Wellie submissions, and the time they got in a car when Conrad was behind the wheel and almost died because he’s a shitty driver, and Evan tells Puppy about the best places within walking distance of the apartment. It starts to rain, light and insistent against the window, and Puppy isn’t touching a single inch of Evan’s body, but Evan’s presence feels so solid next to him. His voice is familiar and his small, private smile still feels like something just for Puppy, and Puppy wonders if this is what it would be like. A few things would be different -- Evan might touch him more, tickle him or mess up his hair or kiss him -- but when they’re quiet, or just tired, it would probably feel exactly like this.

He realizes what he’s thinking and almost drops the puzzle piece he’s holding. Shit. He’d promised himself -- literally looked in the mirror and _promised_ himself -- that, if he was going to be roommates with Evan again, he would only think about him in the friend way.

Puppy’s first morning, and he’s already failing. He _sucks_.

“Doesn’t that one go with the Dory fish?” Evan asks, nudging their shoulders together, and Puppy might be preoccupied but he always knows when Evan’s teasing him.

“Fuck off,” he mumbles, and he smiles when he hears Evan laugh.

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


When Camilla wheedled Lardo’s address out of Ransom the other day, she hadn’t actually been planning on using it more than once.

At least, that’s what she tells herself before she knocks on Lardo’s door.

This time, Lardo answers more quickly. “The fuck,” she mumbles, glaring at Camilla like she’s staring into the sun. “Do you need to be here?”

“I just wanted to stop by,” Camilla says, smiling until she knows her dimples are showing. “You busy?”

Lardo’s body is blocking the doorway. She screws her mouth to the side, avoiding Camilla’s gaze. “You could have called first. I just got back from work.”

“Lucky for me,” Camilla says, smiling bigger. 

Lardo rolls her eyes and sighs, like having a conversation is the biggest ordeal of her life, but she finally relents and opens the door all the way for Camilla. “Come in, then,” she says. “Whatever.”

Camilla waits until Lardo moves out of the way, so she doesn’t have to physically shoulder past her to enter. “Awesome,” she says, taking her shoes off because she’s polite like that. “You work a short morning? Or were you working overnight?”

As Lardo (sullenly) explains that she was working a quick breakfast shift at her restaurant, Camilla tries to get a read on Lardo’s living situation. 

It’s kind of depressing, actually. The furniture seems old and borderline unsanitary, which is understandable and not really a big deal, but there’s a real chance that the apartment hasn’t been cleaned in, like, a year, or at least not cleaned for more than two minutes at a time. The dishes are piled up in the sink and layered on the kitchen counter, flies are a problem, there’s an extra pile of trash next to the overflowing garbage can, and there are maybe twenty million drinking glasses, mugs, and soda cans on the coffee table, plus a ton of balled up shirts and hoodies on the couch and floor. 

“Aren’t you going to offer me a glass of water?” Camilla asks sweetly, and it’s partially because she’s curious to see if there are any clean drinking glasses left in the place.

Lardo offers what might actually be a smile. “You want a glass of water?”

Camilla glances around again. “I’m good, really. I just was worried about your hostess skills -- you might be officially out of the running to be our generation’s Martha Stewart.”

“Sucks,” Lardo says.

Camilla stops looking at the apartment and starts looking at Lardo. She’s messy, too, in her own way -- hair greasy and clipped back haphazardly, face breaking out like that time during Camilla’s senior year when Lardo stopped washing up for a week when she was so stressed about finals, and there’s something about her that just feels… grimy. 

There are a lot of things in this room, Camilla thinks, that need her attention. 

She also thinks that Lardo hasn’t been happy for awhile. Maybe not since graduation. And Camilla may be bad at driving, and resisting candles at Target, and holding her liquor, but she does have a track record of being pretty good at making people happy. “Let’s make breakfast,” she decides. “Not cereal. Real breakfast.”

Lardo smiles, realer than before, before dropping it. “I think I’ve been eating bread for breakfast this week,” she says, like she’s just remembering. “I haven’t gone grocery shopping in awhile.”

“Bread?” Camilla wrinkles her nose automatically, even though she knows being judgmental is not the best route here. “Not even toast? _Larissa_.”

“Sometimes I don’t feel like plugging in the toaster. I don’t know.”

Camilla leads the way into the kitchen, which is no easy feat considering the piles of clothes she has to sidestep to make it there. “Well, open your fridge. Let’s see what you have.”

Lardo hesitates.

“I’m already prepared to feel horrified by your lack of real food. Just open it.”

When Lardo lets Camilla into the fridge, she immediately amuses herself by identifying and discarding all the gross, rotten food. She ignores the fridge door beeping at her. “You keep buying fruit and not eating it,” Camilla comments. “I guess I admire the dedication. Even if it is a waste of money.”

“Oh,” Lardo says, looking at the growing pile of garbage. “I guess I really like buying raspberries.”

“Yeah, but not eating them. Now put on your shoes and take out the trash. Two trips.”

Lardo looks like she’s going to argue, which is so deeply ridiculous that Camilla picks up a spatula to help her gesticulate passionately when it’s time for her inevitable rebuttal, but Lardo just sighs and ties off the garbage bag. 

While Lardo’s outside, Camilla wrestles the rest of the trash into a second bag. She is a good guest, after all.

Eventually, Camilla investigates the cupboards and finds the remains of what must have been the most optimistic stage of Lardo’s adult life -- unopened bags of flour and sugar, a bottle of vinegar, some salt, baking powder, and baking soda. “If only you didn’t kill every dairy product you touched,” Camilla says sadly, but she does find a container of margarine in the fridge, and it doesn’t look completely unsafe to eat. “Don’t you have soy milk or something?”

“No, I stopped drinking that,” Lardo says. “I’ve mostly been drinking water. And Coke, and tea.”

Camilla really wants to make pancakes, because she got really excited when she saw the vinegar and she wants to blow Lardo’s mind. “Do you have nice neighbors?”

“I don’t know,” Lardo answers slowly, “I don’t talk to them. The ones upstairs are super loud, so I don’t like them.”

“Okay, I’ll try next door,” Camilla says. She returns with milk and eggs, in exchange for the promise to bring back a thank-you pancake when they’re ready. “Mix the vinegar and milk together, please.”

She gives Lardo the easy jobs, because she’s nice, and they make homemade pancake mix. It’s annoying that all of the skillets are dirty, but Camilla washes one up and then gets into cooking mode. There are few things more satisfying than flipping a perfectly golden-brown pancake, and she makes Lardo bring the first one back to the neighbors, along with the leftover ingredients they borrowed.

“Did they like it?” Camilla asks when Lardo gets back.

“I don’t know, I didn’t ask,” Lardo says, like it’s a weird question, and Camilla groans. 

The pancakes _are_ good, though, and Camilla is equal parts delighted and worried to see Lardo scarf down four in a row without even stopping to talk. “Thanks,” Lardo says when she’s finally full. “That was -- really good. Way better than what I’d usually have.”

“You think?” Camilla says. “I’m just getting started.”

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


The bus is crowded in the front, but it’s pretty open in the back, so April sits in the back. She has a twenty minute ride to work -- this time to the bookshop, where she’ll have the fascinating task of standing behind the counter for six hours -- and she really needs to talk through her problem with someone who isn’t March, at least not yet.

Her dad answers on the third ring, and then April remembers that she hasn’t talked to him about the job either, and this is going to be a strange conversation. “Hey, Dad,” she says, a little awkwardly, and listens for two minutes as he talks about the antique chairs he’s trying to fix up. When he finally asks her what she’s calling for, April takes a deep breath. “I actually got a job offer. In Mendon,” she adds, cutting off his excited congratulations.

“Mendon,” he repeats. “That’s quite a drive. You’d have to move, wouldn’t you?” 

April watches the people on the street as the bus rolls past them. “Yeah. I haven’t…. I haven’t actually told March yet. I wanted to wait until I got a job offer to say something, and now I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, you have to tell her,” her dad says, because he is a very straightforward man. “You know that, April.” 

“Yeah,” April huffs. She can feel her chest tightening with anxiety, or maybe dread. “I just don’t want to. We’ve never talked about moving before; I don’t know if she’d do it. I don’t….” She doesn’t want March to say no, because that would mean she cares about staying in Boston more than being with April. 

Sort of. That’s probably an unfair reduction of the situation.

“I think you just need to sit her down and lay out the facts,” her dad says, like that’s a simple thing to do or something. “You’ve been waiting two years for an opportunity like this. If your relationship with March is meant to be, she’ll support you. If she can’t do that, it’s better to find out now.”

“Dad,” April groans, or really _whines_ , because he says that horrible thing like he’s just talking about the score on a football game or something. Like it’s not the worst thing that could happen. “I can’t just say _move to a different city or it’s over between us_. We have to compromise.”

Her dad pauses. “Of course. I didn’t say _move_ , I said _support_. She can support you from Boston if that’s the way things need to be, honey, but I think you should be careful about turning down a great job just to stay in a relationship. That’s the only advice I’m giving you today.”

April’s getting close to her stop, so she says goodbye and puts her phone away. 

She and her dad have a lot in common -- probably too much in common -- but she doesn’t think about relationships with the same devastating practicality that he does. She would love it if March would move with her, and she would be willing to work through a long-distance relationship if that’s what needed to happen, but April thinks she would also be willing to sacrifice the job if March wasn’t willing to move or be long-distance.

Which means the only person she really needs to talk to is March. April takes a deep breath. “Shit.”

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


As Camilla progressively cleans the apartment more and more, she’s been giving Lardo instructions to help out less and less. Lardo finds this insulting, but it’s also a relief. 

She doesn’t really have the energy to clean, even with someone else’s presence in the apartment as motivation, and this way -- this way she gets to watch Camilla. 

The three years that have gone by haven’t done anything to change how _bright_ Camilla is, or how Lardo can’t help but feeling in awe of her. As Camilla methodically cleans every layer of the apartment, all the way down to the floors, Lardo burrows into the couch, huddled up in a blanket, and watches.

“Do you even own a broom?” Camilla asks when she’s come back from shaking out the rug by the door.

Lardo tries to remember. “Yes.” It’s still wrapped in plastic, but it’s stowed in the back of the hall closet. Camilla purses her lips when she pulls the plastic cover off, but she doesn’t say anything. That makes her judgment feel even more potent, somehow.

She only feels guilty for letting Camilla do all this work when Camilla starts washing up the pile of dishes Lardo left all over the counter. “No, you don’t have to -- the dishwasher’s right there,” Lardo says, gesturing.

“ _Larissa_ ,” Camilla says. “Is it really so hard to use a dishwasher?”

Lardo shrugs, scowling at the floor because she doesn’t know where to look or what expression to have.

“Well,” Camilla says lightly, sliding the dishwasher shut after she’s filled it and added detergent, “I declare this apartment reasonably clean. What should we do to celebrate?”

It’s been three years since they had sex, one year since Lardo had sex with _anyone_ , and she wonders if she’s even reading this right to be thinking about that. Camilla looks good. She always looks good. Athletic black shorts, red tank top that’s just a little too small. That same look in her eyes as always, like she sees all of Lardo’s fantasies and thinks they’re kind of cute.

“I guess we could clean you off,” Camilla says, looking Lardo over with an appraising eye. She steps closer, and Lardo watches her hand come up, watches it skirt past Lardo’s face and come to rest in her hair. “You’ve seen better days, haven’t you?”

Lardo says nothing, just holds Camilla’s gaze and waits for something to happen.

“You wanna take a shower?” Camilla asks, and there’s nothing specific in her words that suggests this is the type of shower where Camilla might join her, but her tone is a whole other story. 

Lardo tips her head to the side. “Yeah.” 

Camilla grins, and Lardo has never figured out how this woman manages to smile sweetly and wolfishly at the same time, but she’s got it down to a damn science. “Good thing I cleaned the bathroom, then,” Camilla says, and Lardo rolls her eyes.

There’s a slightly uncomfortable edge to the air around them, Lardo thinks, or maybe she’s the only one feeling it. Camilla leads the way, opens the bathroom door and makes a big deal of pointing out how the bathtub is actually white now, how the stains on the shower wall are gone. 

It would ruin the underlying sexual tension, except that when Camilla’s standing with her back to Lardo, it’s so easy to stare at her legs. “That’s good,” Lardo says, cutting off Camilla mid-sentence, and she pulls her shirt up and over her head. 

Camilla glances back. Her eyes stick on Lardo’s body for a second, and then she turns on the water. 

Lardo finishes undressing while Camilla fusses with the water temperature, and she steps into the tub before Camilla’s settled on anything. “It’s good,” Lardo says, and she pulls up the diverter to start the shower. 

It’s actually too cold, so Lardo moves Camilla’s hand away and turns up the temperature herself. It’s weird being naked while Camilla’s still in her tank top and shorts, but everything about today has been weird. “You getting in?”

Camilla pulls a hand through her hair, and Lardo watches it shine under the bathroom light. “S’pose I will,” Camilla says, and she sits down on the closed toilet to take off her shorts. 

Lardo doesn’t watch her continue to undress; she angles the showerhead to what she imagines will be more convenient for two people and starts reaching for the shampoo. 

“I got it,” Camilla says, shutting the shower curtain behind her. She’s naked, and Lardo can’t see any tan lines. She doesn’t know why that’s one of the first things she notices. Some people actually look better with their clothes _on_ \-- Lardo suspects she’s one of them -- but Camilla has always looked beautiful naked.

Lardo isn’t sure how this is going to go, but then Camilla pulls Lardo’s body against her own, back to front, and opens the shampoo bottle in front of them. She massages the shampoo into Lardo’s hair, her elbows propped up on Lardo’s shoulders. The top of Lardo’s head barely reaches Camilla’s chin, and back when they were together Lardo never fully expressed how much she really wanted Camilla to use that, to manhandle her.

It seems like Camilla’s getting the message now. 

“Hold on,” Camilla whispers into her ear, and Lardo rolls her eyes as Camilla leans around her to pick up the bar of soap. When she’s back to her original position, Camilla lathers the soap in her hands -- in front of her body, where Lardo can see -- and then presses her fingers into Lardo’s back. “Don’t move,” Camilla says softly. She digs her fingers into Lardo’s skin, confident and deep, then moves to wash Lardo’s front, her collarbone and breasts and stomach.

“Am I washing you later?” Lardo asks, trying and failing to sound unaffected. She always feels more vulnerable under Camilla’s touch, like an extra layer between herself and the rest of the world has suddenly disappeared.

Camilla kisses her neck and lathers up more soap between her hands. “Nope,” she says, “I’m already clean.” She cups Lardo’s ass, and Lardo automatically arches back as Camilla cleans her there, too.

When Camilla’s done, she leans around Lardo again to put the bar of soap back where it goes. She uncaps a bottle of conditioner, pours some in her palms, and tugs her fingers through Lardo’s hair. As Camilla rinses off her hands under the showerhead, Lardo starts to move forward to put her head under the water. “Woah there,” Camilla says, gently tugging her back. “Who raised you? You’re supposed to let it set for a few minutes first.”

Lardo looks up at Camilla, reaches up to feel Camilla’s wet blonde hair, down to touch Camilla’s flank. “What should we do while we wait?” 

“Mmm,” Camilla says, navigating Lardo toward the shower wall with a few pushes, Camilla’s knee against the back of Lardo’s thigh, and leans down to dig her teeth into Lardo’s shoulder -- just hard enough to bite, gentle enough not to hurt. “What do you _want_ to do?”

“Touch me,” Lardo says, tugging at Camilla’s right hand as Camilla uses her left hand to brace against the wall, and it turns out that Camilla still remembers how to get Lardo off the way she likes -- quick, direct in an almost merciless way, never teasing or pulling back. Lardo tips her head back so it’s resting on Camilla’s shoulder and doesn’t make a sound.

She’s tired out by the time they’re done, wants to bury her face in Camilla’s neck but can’t, because it’s time to rinse out her hair. Camilla tilts Lardo’s head under the spray, raking one hand through Lardo’s hair while using her other hand to keep the water and conditioner out of Lardo’s eyes. Lardo leans into Camilla, shutting her eyes for a second.

“There,” Camilla says, turning off the water. “Oh shit, do you even have a towel in here?”

“You put it in the laundry,” Lardo points out, so they shake off as much as they can, wringing out their hair before running down the hall to Lardo’s room. “You should have grabbed your clothes,” Lardo says, taking a clean pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt out of her closet. “Now -- ew, stop!”

Camilla is lying on Lardo’s bed, rolling around to dry herself off on the sheets. “What, you don’t want me to be wet?” she asks innocently, lying on her back and peering up at Lardo through her eyelashes, legs splayed open suggestively. 

As it turns out, Lardo’s still good at eating Camilla out, if nothing else.

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


Puppy knows, in some corner of his mind, that he has his own personal bedroom where he could hang out. Now that the rain is slowing down, he knows he could go explore their neighborhood.

There are many things he could do.

But he’s going to die on this couch, maybe from a heart attack, because Evan has weights and a little exercise mat and stupid blue trainers -- and no shirt. He is very committed to fitness, as far as Puppy can tell, and has cycled through push-ups and sit-ups and lunges and weightlifting and back to push-ups again.

Puppy appreciates the push-ups. He appreciates Evan’s flawless push-up technique, and he especially appreciates Evan’s muscular back and the way it’s glistening under a thin layer of sweat.

He remembers that he’s trying not to think lustful thoughts about Evan anymore, but it’s hard to remember _why_ , so he keeps watching and trying to pretend that he’s not watching. 

He only stops staring when he starts to worry that it’ll give him a hard-on, which would be awkward and would probably make Evan hate him again. So Puppy tries to go back to working on the puzzle, even though he quit an hour ago because it was giving him a headache and starting to harm his self-esteem.

Finally, Evan groans, rolls his mat up, and flops down on the sofa next to Puppy. “Oof,” he sighs, and Puppy actually had forgotten how satisfied Evan gets after a hard workout, the way it seems he _likes_ the feeling of his body aching. He’s sitting comfortably close to Puppy, their knees just barely touching.

“Go away,” Puppy says, not looking at Evan. “You’re gross.”

“Oh, really?”

“You’re all sweaty. And you smell bad.”

Evan elbows Puppy a little too hard, then gets this look on his face that Puppy does _not_ like. “I smell, huh?”

Puppy knows where this is going, but he figures it out a second too late and finds himself smooshed against the side of the sofa, Evan pressed into him on the other side, holding him in place even though Puppy probably still weighs more than Evan and could push him off if he wanted to. “Ew,” Puppy says, but he starts giggling and can’t stop when he feels Evan’s sweaty arms wrap around him.

Evan laughs, too, and he smears his face against Puppy’s shoulder, which is so gross that Puppy sort of screams, but there’s something about feeling Evan so close to him that makes Puppy automatically lean in, too. “You’re gross,” he says, but his heart is hammering too hard for him to sound convincing.

“Yeah,” Evan agrees, and he leans in even closer. Puppy can feel Evan’s cheek against his neck, stretched like he’s smiling, and it makes Puppy smile too.

Evan’s cheek slides a few inches back, and Puppy feels Evan’s nose brush against him, and Puppy opens his mouth to say something, and he loses his breath when Evan kisses the side of his neck. 

His lips are warm. It’s not a light kiss; it’s deep and pushes Puppy’s neck a couple inches to the side, and he starts to close his eyes. 

They never fully close. Evan jerks away before then, and while Puppy’s brain is still a mess of white noise, Evan gets up and goes into the kitchen. Puppy hears him open and close cabinet doors, hears him rummage around in the fridge and clang things around, and he feels like he might be floating into a bad dream, or a bad memory.

“Be back later,” Evan says under his breath, stepping out of the kitchen and glaring at the floor as he slips his shoes on.

Puppy feels like he swallowed a rock. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going out, why the fuck do you --” Evan clenches his jaw and keeps glaring at the floor. He grabs his keys and leaves, and even though he doesn’t slam the door it feels like he does. 

Puppy kind of wants to wreck Evan’s puzzle now, so he moves into the kitchen and starts microwaving a mug of water so he can drink some of Evan’s stupid green tea. 

He knows a lot of people think he’s dumb, and sometimes he wonders if they’re right. Because he didn’t think this would happen again. He really didn’t, which probably means he’s exactly as dumb as everyone thinks he is, because now that he’s here it’s obvious that he’s too in love with Evan to live with him without fucking everything up.

He doesn’t know what Evan wants, and he probably never will, so he drinks Evan’s green tea and sits at Evan’s kitchen table and looks at the crossword books Evan left sitting out, and he thinks Evan might like him, or maybe Evan hates him, but either way Evan isn’t going to be with him.

He opens up Evan’s crossword book. He’s not feeling very lucky today, but he uses a pen anyway.

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


Lardo wakes up sluggishly, everything a soft cocoon of _warm_ and _sleepy_ and _wet?_ \-- and all she wants to do is feel the clean sheets against her naked body, to let the weak sunlight coming in from the window play with her face a little while longer, and she sighs, and stretches.

“Look who’s waking up,” a voice says, and the voice makes her ache. Lardo’s too tired to think much about anything. “Aw, you’re so cute. Would you punch me if I tried to roll you up like a little blanket burrito?”

“Go be awake somewhere else,” Lardo groans, face firmly planted in her pillow, but then she sits up, because she doesn’t actually want Camilla to leave. “What’re you doing?”

Camilla looks up, her expression open and happy. “Checking out your art, girl. I think I found your green period.”

“Ha, ha,” Lardo says sourly. She never lets anyone look at her art. None of it’s good enough for her to be a real artist; she just keeps making it as some sort of compulsion. Or punishment. Her normal response would be to yell at Camilla for crossing this boundary line, but she experiments with that thought for a moment and finds that she doesn’t want to. Seeing Camilla go through her things like this feels natural, an opportunity to be open rather than an invasion of privacy.

She lies back quietly, taking stock of her body and her mood while Camilla moves on to the second stack of old paintings. By the time Camilla’s seen it all, Lardo is getting out of bed and putting her t-shirt and sweatpants back on. She actually bothers to find underwear this time, because the odds of them having sex _again_ are pretty low.

“So,” Camilla says, interrupting Lardo’s thoughts and reaching out to help her tug the t-shirt all the way down to her stomach as she puts it on, “are you ready to have the talk?”

Lardo almost reaches out to grab Camilla’s hands, to hold onto them for safekeeping. But she doesn’t. “What talk?”

Camilla gives her a knowing look. “The talk about why you’re living by yourself, working a job you hate, living in what can only be described as squalor, painting beautiful but symbolically hopeless pieces, and just, like, basically living like there’s a raincloud over your head at all times.”

“Like Eeyore?” Lardo tries.

“Sure,” Camilla says. “Can we have that talk? It’s because I care about you.”

It’s a little awkward, tacked on at the end there as Camilla rocks back and forth on her heels, but Lardo believes it. She doesn’t know why Camilla would care about her now, when it’s been three years since they dated and two years since they’ve talked at all. But it’s only been an hour since they fucked, so that might explain why Camilla’s feeling emotionally attached again.

This thinking pattern is a big part of why they broke up in the first place. “We can have the talk,” she says, emphasizing the words sarcastically and sighing as she flops back down on the bed. “What do you want to say?”

Camilla surveys her for a second, then climbs back into bed beside her. “I just want to understand you,” she says. She sounds younger than usual. “When I got your address from Ransom, he said nobody ever sees you much anymore. Why is that?”

Lardo scowls automatically, turns her face away so she can try to keep an emotional distance. “I don’t know. I tried to at first. But I always have such weird hours at the restaurant, and I’d get more and more tired and bitchy after work, and I stopped reaching out to them. I wasn’t very fun to be with when they invited me out, or invited themselves over. I stopped _letting_ them invite themselves over, because I hate my apartment. I’m a different person than I was when we were friends, and they know that. Our friendship doesn’t -- it just doesn’t work anymore.”

Camilla stretches out her legs, brushing her feet against Lardo’s for just a second. “I disagree, actually, but that can wait. Where’s your heart at these days?”

It’s such a vague question, such a _Camilla_ question, and of course Lardo feels like she gets what Camilla’s saying right away. She could pretend she doesn’t understand, but it doesn’t feel worth it. “Like, dead,” she mumbles into her blanket, and groans as she tries to come up with words that would even describe herself. “Whatever.”

Camilla leans closer and carefully begins running her fingers through Lardo’s hair, gentle and repetitive. 

Lardo breathes in, out, does it several times. She feels safe, and like Camilla’s willing to try and understand. She closes her eyes and just focuses on the feeling of Camilla’s fingers in her hair for a few more seconds. “I can’t do anything. I had a stupid goal in college, and now that I can’t do it, I don’t have anything else that I want to do to take its place.” She stops to catch her breath, letting the gentle tugging at her hair soothe her again. “Everything about my life feels pointless and -- stupid, or pathetic, like I can’t even get myself to take out the trash. I sit around feeling hungry for hours before I can get myself to stand up and try to figure out dinner, and even then I don’t have any real food. I feel like the only thing I have enough energy to do is breathe -- like, the bare minimum of going to work and eating is taking up everything I have.” 

The hand in her hair stills for a moment as Camilla uses her other hand to rub Lardo’s back. “Does that mean you’ve stopped with your art, too?”

“Not really,” Lardo says. This feels safer -- an extension of herself, not the core of herself -- so she turns over, letting Camilla see her face even as Lardo continues to avoid eye contact, staring at the wall instead. “I work on them sometimes. Not every day, because I can’t, and because when I do sit down to work, a lot of the time I get really lost in it and don’t stop for a long time.”

“Hmm,” Camilla says.

Lardo scoots closer so she can rest her chin on Camilla’s shoulder, lying side-by-side. It feels more personal, even if a part of her is using it as an easy excuse to hide her face again. “There’s one piece I’m working on right now. Apart from that, all the art I’ve made in the past two years is in this room. You already looked at it.”

Camilla touches at her hair again. “I don’t know art, Lards,” she says. “Is that a lot? Or a little?”

“It feels like a little to me.” 

“They’re good,” Camilla says. She uses her elbows to move back, far enough away that she can look into Lardo’s eyes, the fucker. “And you might be convincing yourself that your only extracurricular activity for the rest of your life has to be painting, but as someone who isn’t consumed by artistic passion or whatever, I’m saying your output is impressive. In number, and in quality.”

“It’s not called extracurricular when I’m not in school,” Lardo says. She can feel herself being petulant, so she decides to just embrace it by kicking Camilla lightly in the shin. “And you already said the shit I made is depressing to look at.”

“So is _The Scream_ ,” Camilla says wisely. “It’s not a bad thing. Except for the fact that you’re important to me as a person, so I don’t want to watch you descend into a physiological hell just so you can make incredible but disturbing paintings that people will stare at in museums and wonder why they just felt a chill go down their spine. That part’s bad.” 

Lardo snorts. “Shut up.”

“Never,” Camilla says, which is true. She leans over to kiss Lardo’s forehead, like it’s a totally normal thing for her to do, and then she rolls out of bed and lands on the floor on all-fours. “Parkour,” she says smugly. 

Lardo gives her a heavily judgmental look.

Camilla gets up and smiles down at Lardo, who’s still stretched out on the bed. “I have to get going. But you haven’t seen the last of me, ma’am.”

“I’m starting to think I never will,” Lardo snipes, and then she yells a little when Camilla reaches down to flick her nose. “Fuck off!”

“I heard everything you said,” Camilla adds, and she’s always so fast at transitioning from playful to serious that it gives Lardo some kind of whiplash. “You’re worth a lot, Lards, and as soon as you figure out what you deserve I think your life is going to look a lot better than it is now.”

Lardo can feel herself immediately getting defensive, and she halfheartedly tries to push it down. “Okay. Whatever.”

“Okay, whatever,” Camilla sing-songs back, and she kisses Lardo’s nose before she goes. Obnoxiously.

It really is obnoxious, Lardo thinks, but she doesn’t wipe it off.

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


The rain had stopped half an hour ago, leaving behind that smell everyone else seems to like, but Evan just doesn’t want to step in a puddle. Or in worm guts. He hates rainy weather, and he hates his life right now. 

Damn it, he’d had a _plan_. He was going to fuck girls, hypothetically marry a girl at some point or whatever, and be friends with guys. The word _bisexual_ makes him feel like the object of a scientific study, pinned down and stared at; he likes the word _straight_ much better, because it means _normal_. Straight is the plan. Straight is supposed to be easy, because all he has to do is ignore a few things he wants.

Evan’s plan is, like, a little fucked up now. In hindsight, it’s obvious that agreeing to let Puppy move in was always going to fuck up his plan, but he’s always been really bad at saying no to Puppy. 

That right there should have been a sign that he wouldn’t be able to do this. 

But Puppy’s living with him now, and Evan pretty much _has_ to deal with it. So he walks the long loop he knows by heart, where he can walk without paying too much attention to the route. He’s going to just have to accept the worm guts on his shoes.

He deserves worm guts on his shoes, probably, if he’s going to keep doing dumb shit and hurting Puppy like this.

Evan would really like to come up with a new game plan, preferably in four steps or less, but this might be one of those between-a-rock-and-a-hard-place situations. If he could just, like, do whatever he wanted, he would turn around, go back to his apartment, and make out with Puppy for a couple hours before gay-marrying him, but in real life? 

His plan for real life isn’t going to change. He’s going to -- eventually, maybe in, like, six years -- marry a girl, make a lot of money, and not have anything going on in his personal life that causes people to feel sorry for him or laugh at him. That’s actually, like, a viable option for him, since he actually likes girls, and it really doesn’t matter how cute Puppy is. 

It would be a lot easier to convince himself to only think about Puppy as a friend if Evan actually had a girlfriend, or a friend-with-girlfriend-potential. Or if there weren’t, like, ten billion couples walking around holding each other’s hands and looking gross and mushy right in front of him.

Evan can only do this to his shoes for so much longer. So if he can’t come up with a new game plan right now, he can at least try to live by this mantra: Puppy is his friend. It doesn’t matter that Puppy has a tendency to remind Evan that he isn’t, like, full-on straight. That’s not Puppy’s fault, and Evan isn’t going to be distracted by it, and Puppy is his friend. 

He doesn’t love this mantra, particularly because of the not-being-straight part, but maybe it’s, like, a personal growth thing that Puppy’s moving in with him. Obviously no one else ever needs to know that he likes guys almost as much as he likes girls, but it’s probably lame to try to pretend any differently with himself. So he’s going to admit to himself that he wants to touch Puppy in a million not-just-friends ways, feel himself become wiser and more mature like a _boss_ , and then get over it.

Okay, so personal growth can be checked off today’s to-do list. He’s going to go back to his place, he’s going to finish his puzzle, and he’s going to be a super awesome friend who never looks at Puppy in that bad way and also never treats him like crap to punish him for being cute or whatever.

On his way back, he sees a flower stand, and he’s sort of been meaning to not have the most boring living space ever, so he buys a bunch of yellow and orange roses. Puppy will like them, and he’s pretty sure only red roses are supposed to be romantic, so it’s cool.

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


It’s kind of stupid, Camilla thinks, that you can grab a meal between breakfast and lunch and call it brunch, but there isn’t an equivalent for eating between the regular hours of lunch and dinner.

She tells Ransom and Holster as much. “Why do we all say brunch but there isn’t a name for this? It makes me feel like a failure for eating at three. Ugh.”

“Well,” Holster says, and he’s using that tone of voice that lets Camilla know she’s going to want to punch him in a second, “thank you for joining us for _linner_.”

“Ew,” Ransom says appreciatively. 

Camilla rolls her eyes and puts her menu down. “Anyone else feeling brunch for linner?”

“I think you’re onto something,” Holster says, and Camilla rolls her eyes again.

They do end up ordering breakfast foods -- an omelette for Camilla, banana pancakes for Ransom, and a shamefully huge stack of waffles for Holster. It’s a nice place, with quiet piano music playing overhead and strange, colorful pictures on the walls. There’s a friendly buzz of happy customers, but it’s not over-crowded either. 

“We went grocery shopping earlier,” Ransom says as they dig into their food. “It was the grossest thing. I’ve literally never felt more ashamed in my life.”

“Buying frozen dinners again?”

“ _No,_ Camilla, and that was just one time when we were both sick. No, we were just, like, grossly domestic and sweet? Even I wanted to vomit after a while.”

“We made out next to the pasta sauce,” Holster confirms.

Ransom grins, spearing a piece of scrambled egg on his fork. “But we bought everything we need for the next two weeks, so now we’re going around the world. In a culinary way, that is.”

“Oh shit,” Camilla says. “That sounds like heaven.”

“Italy, Mexico, India, China, France…” Holster frowns. “Which one am I forgetting, Rans?”

Ransom steals some of Holster’s hash browns. “Pakistan.”

“Right,” Holster says. “We’re gonna do a new country every two days. Our days of frozen pizza are behind us now. Kind of.”

“You do anything today, Cam?” Ransom asks.

Well -- isn’t that a loaded question. Camilla thinks about Lardo’s shower. She keeps the smirk off her face. “I dropped by Lardo’s place. She seemed so different when we went out to dinner; I wanted to check on her, I guess.”

Both of them look up at her at the same time, forks frozen halfway to their mouths. Camilla snickers at the way they mirror each other, even though Ransom’s curiosity holds more empathy than Holster’s pure love for drama. 

But Holster is the one who speaks first, and Camilla might have judged him a little too harshly. “Lardo? Does she seem okay? We keep trying to get her to come over and hang out, but it’s like she doesn’t care about anything anymore.”

“Yeah, is she okay? Is she living with anyone?” Ransom is staring at Camilla like she holds all the secrets of the universe.

Sometimes she forgets that she’s not really the only one who cares about Lardo. That she might be the only one in their group who’s known Lardo in _every_ way, but that doesn’t mean the others don’t love her too.

“She doesn’t have a roommate,” Camilla says. “I think she needs to move. It’s not fun for anyone to live alone, and it’s worse when she doesn’t see a ton of people in her free time, either.”

Ransom frowns and stirs his iced tea with his straw. “I don’t get why she won’t hang out with us. Like, I thought about it a lot, and I’m pretty sure we didn’t do anything wrong, like to hurt her or drive her away. She just… stopped.”

Camilla doesn’t want to say anything about Lardo’s messy apartment, or her empty kitchen cabinets. She knows Ransom and Holster won’t do anything with the information, won’t even judge Lardo for it, but Lardo had been ashamed -- and it’s still Camilla’s job to protect her, at least in the little ways she can. “I don’t think you did anything wrong,” she says carefully. “I think the problem’s all on Lardo’s side. If you want to see her, you’ll have to come to her.”

“We tried that,” Holster says, a little irritably, “but she yelled at us for not giving her a heads up.”

“And she always says no when we try to plan it in advance,” Ransom adds. “So we’re kind of stuck.”

Camilla doesn’t have a solution for that, so she just eats more of her omelette. 

“I’m glad you’re checking on her, though,” Ransom says. He catches her eye, and Camilla’s heart swells a little, like it always does when she gets a fresh reminder of how much she loves Justin Oluransi. “You’re good for her.”

“Three years ago,” she mumbles anyway.

Holster steals some of her strawberries, and Camilla glares at him halfheartedly. “If you see her again, just let her know we miss her, would you?” he asks. “We miss hanging out with her.”

Camilla thinks about Lardo, alone in that apartment. “Sure. But you should go over there and tell her yourself.”

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


March only spends a couple hours out with her family; they want all the details on her upcoming marriage proposal, which is a hard conversation for March to have with them. She never has conflict with her family, necessarily, but she also never feels emotionally close to them, so she doesn’t like talking about anything that’s at all personal -- an issue that’s only been compounded since her parents’ divorce last year. 

She’s lucky, though, to have them; she knows she’s lucky. They’re a strange bunch, a family of left-brained atheists and agnostics who talk about science instead of politics and math instead of pop culture -- which totally made March fun at parties, growing up. March might be able to trace all of her emotional intimacy issues back to them, but they never made her feel odd or wrong for being bisexual, which is more than most people would be able to say about their families, extended and all. 

March changes out of her shorts, which cut into her skin more than she realized when she bought them, and starts getting the apartment ready. 

She has it all planned out. On her way home from lunch, March already texted April and told her she’d pick her up from work so they can go straight to their date -- March made it sound like it was an issue of dinner reservations, when it’s really about keeping the apartment a surprise. She’s bringing a nice outfit for April to change into. 

Now all that’s left is to make the apartment as romantic as a cramped one-bedroom apartment can possibly be.

Which is why she has four boxes of romantic crap hidden under the bed. It’s a good thing April hates cleaning, or she’d have noticed it a long time ago.

March has already cleaned the apartment thoroughly, a task she’d been working on over the past week; romantic decorations lose some of their charm if they’re just covering up a mess. 

She starts by throwing a satin black sheet over the couch, then stands on a chair to set up the ridiculous red bead curtain in the doorway from the living room to the bedroom. She tapes red and pink streamers up in the bathroom, tapes a few red paper hearts to the bathroom mirror. She goes back to the couch and tries to be artful in the way she sprinkles fake rose petals across it, although she’s not sure her petal-arrangement technique is up to par. 

She is also very convinced that this is a desperately cheesy attempt at romance, but that’s kind of what April signed up for with March.

March has the basics all set up, so now she brings in the big guns. Cheap plastic vases filled with cheap flowers, which she places in every windowsill and on every table. She finishes with another smattering of fake rose petals, this time across their bed, and makes sure the old iPod she dug up is set to play their special playlist on loop in the bedroom. 

By the time March is finished, it’s hard to ignore the fact that her heart is racing. She wishes it was in a fun way, but it just feels like nauseated terror. She pours herself a glass of water and sits on the floor in front of the TV so she won’t disturb the whole situation on the couch.

This fear is just something she has to get through. She’s been feeling it creeping up on her awhile, and she knows it’s normal.

She also knows April is going to say yes. That April is going to be with her forever, because they both knew by the fourth month they’d been dating that they were home when they were together, and that there’d be no point in ever stopping. 

Doesn’t mean it’s not scary to be the one asking, though.

“Alright,” March whispers to herself. She doesn’t have it in her to deliver a real pep talk, just grabs her purse, gives the apartment one more walk-through, and goes to pick up April.

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


Evan makes sure he fiddles with the lock for an extra few seconds when he gets back to the apartment, enough time to warn Puppy that he’s back, just in case. 

He expects Puppy to be gone, and he is. Evan tries to ignore how disappointed he feels when he sees the empty living room, and he takes off his shoes, leaves them by the door. He’s realizing now that he doesn’t actually have a vase to put the roses in, but he can probably use a can or a… tall glass, or something. Ugh. 

As Evan’s clattering around in the kitchen cabinets, he hears Puppy step in behind him. “Flowers?” Puppy says, and Evan grunts in affirmation. He sees a super tall glass he didn’t even know he had, stretches out to grab it, and turns to see if Puppy’s still mad at him.

And -- Puppy’s the same as he always is. Golden and smiling and painfully good to look at. He’s not as cheery as usual, waiting to gauge Evan’s mood, and guilt twists at Evan’s gut as he shoves the roses into the glass and thrusts it forward toward Puppy. “Yeah,” is all he says. “Thought they’d make the room less boring.”

Puppy beams, which Evan’s figured out by now is pretty much his normal resting face, and takes the glass to the sink. “They’re great,” he says, filling the glass more than he should and smiling back at Evan. 

“Yeah,” Evan says. He thinks he should probably apologize for storming out earlier, but that would inherently mean acknowledging what happened right _before_ he stormed out, and that’s not a good idea. “Can you move over that stuff so they’ll fit in the middle of the table?”

“Sure!” Puppy says, laying on a little more pep than the situation really requires, and _shit_. Now that Evan has opened up that door, now that he -- no beating around the bush here, he kissed Puppy’s fucking neck like an idiot, because he’s so, so stupid -- he can’t stop thinking the wrong things. Something ordinary, like the way Puppy looks in his goldenrod muscle shirt with the sleeves ripped out, is suddenly a distraction, and Evan isn’t sure he’s going to survive.

The mantra. The mantra. Puppy is his best friend. It doesn’t matter if he reminds Evan that he isn’t exactly straight.

“I’m glad you like them,” Evan says, for lack of anything better to say. He hopes Puppy can’t tell that he’s still freaking out. “Hopefully they’ll make up for me being a shitty roommate, huh?” That’s the closest he can get to a real apology, and it still scares him.

Puppy looks surprised, because of course he does. “You’re not a shitty roommate! I’m probably all up in your space, anyway; I should probably be getting things figured out in my room instead of annoying you all day.”

“Oh my god, shut up, you’re not annoying,” Evan says. He tugs at Puppy’s hair because that’s what he used to do. “Let’s just finish that puzzle, okay? You have more Nemo fish to put together still. Unless you were working on it when I was gone.”

“Yeah, right,” Puppy says, looking offended at the idea that he’d do something as nerdy as work on a puzzle by himself. “And I’m gonna put together way more than just the Nemo fish or whatever. I’m gonna do more than _half_ of it.”

“Whatever you say,” Evan says back, grinning, and his good mood is only dampened for a second when he catches himself looking at Puppy’s ass when he follows him back out to the living room. 

It’s a really nice ass, though, so his good mood comes back right away. Still, he makes himself stop looking.

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


The world feels nicer than it usually does, so Lardo thinks this might be a good time to get back to work on her painting. She walks around the canvas, examining it from every angle she can think of, and starts mixing colors.

She adds some shadows in the corner; tries to think about how she can shape the top half of the piece; make it more vivid, arresting; but there’s a part of her mind that can’t quite fall into it. Lardo privately thinks about her painting experience through the metaphor of lying on the bottom of a lake for hours -- you should drown, being down there for so long, but if her mind’s in the right place it’s like being hypnotized into a deep sleep where she doesn’t even need to breathe.

Well, right now she’s wide awake.

Lardo shrugs off the tension in her shoulders and decides to take a quick lap around her apartment. Clear her head. It’s easier than normal, because there isn’t a bunch of shit all over the floor, and Lardo notices that the window blinds in the living room are open. The sunlight makes the stains on the carpet stand out, but it also warms up the walls and makes Lardo feel oddly hopeful, like she might actually have enough energy to get through the rest of the day.

She notices, for the first time, that her stomach’s gnawing at her, asking for food; it’s almost second-nature at this point to ignore it until she has no other choice, but Lardo’s already up, and she thinks there are leftover pancakes in the fridge, so she won’t even have to do any real work.

As Lardo watches the plate of pancakes rotate slowly under the microwave light, she breathes in and recognizes that her apartment feels fresher, and the air smells good. Camilla had found the canister of Glade room spray Lardo had bought when she first moved in. White tea and lily, she thinks.

The pancakes are still better than anything Lardo’s eaten here in the past two months, even after being reheated. Food in her belly grounds Lardo, and she feels content to just sit at her junky kitchen table for a few more minutes, watching the tree outside the window tremble against the wind. 

She observes herself there, and marvels at how normal she feels. Awake and energized without feeling consumed by negative feelings. Just -- enjoying her day.

Lardo looks at the chair at the other end of the table -- she only has two chairs; more seemed unnecessary -- and thinks that it would be better if Camilla were sitting there.

That’s new. She stares at her pancakes for a second before she keeps eating. Because the thing is, she’s used to feeling vaguely discontented, even feeling lonely, but she doesn’t tend to want any specific person here with her. 

Usually, the thought of anyone from her Samwell life here makes Lardo feel sick to her stomach.

But she wants Camilla to come back. She doesn’t know if Camilla lives in the city, or if she’s in the suburbs. She doesn’t know why Camilla came back for her now, not before; she doesn’t know if Camilla was doing it because she thought it was the nice thing to do and now she’s done with Lardo, or if she wants more.

Lardo wants more. She thinks.

She leaves the plate in the sink, because she might be feeling okay but that doesn’t mean she’s going to start putting any extra effort into cleaning, and wanders back into her art room. 

But she can stare at her unfinished canvas for as long as she wants, but she’s still not going to work on it. It’s hard to focus on anything now, and Lardo walks up to the window and presses her face against the glass, staring out at the sidewalk and the dead grass.

A minute later, she’s sprawled out on the floor, only slightly annoyed by the plastic tarp she uses to keep paint off the carpet, and she’s paging through her sketchpad for the first time in weeks. She finds a fresh, white page, picks up her pencil, and sketches out the basic planes of Camilla’s face.

When Lardo draws portraits, she usually leaves their most dynamic, most _difficult_ feature for the end, something to save as a challenge and a reward -- Shitty’s mouth, the shy pull of Jack’s brow, Bitty’s eyes. But with Camilla, she doesn’t even know which feature that might be. They all tug at her in different ways, all fighting for her attention and stilling the pencil in her hand.

Lardo creates two, three, four Camillas, and none of them are good enough. She just wants the real thing.

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


When March pulls into the parking lot outside the bookstore, April’s sitting on the curb like a moody teenager; March laughs and rolls down the window. “You look like your parents just took your GameBoy away.”

“I have literally no idea what you’re talking about,” April says, but she leans in through the open car window and gives March a quick kiss. “What outfit did you bring?”

“My favorite one,” March says. She has a _thing_ about seeing April in a little black dress.

“That’s my only fancy outfit,” April says, because she knows she looks good in the dress and has never bothered finding a second one.

March keeps a look-out as April changes in the backseat, and then there’s just a twenty minute drive to the restaurant. March gets April to tell her about the book she’s been reading during slow moments when there aren’t any customers at the store; it’s something about primates, and March thinks it’s interesting all on its own but absolutely fascinating when April describes it.

She lets April dominate most of the dinner conversation, and tries to focus even though she keeps catching herself only half-paying attention. 

The thing is, there’s an engagement ring in her purse. Sure, it’s in a little velvet ring box, but it’s in her purse. It’s just -- _there_. What if it falls out? What if April needs something in there and finds it, somehow?

She’s actually proposing tonight. It’s finally happening.

March really can’t focus.

But this is their romantic pre-engagement dinner, and she doesn’t get to tap out just because she’s anxious. So March does what she was originally planning to do -- guides the conversation toward the nostalgic, touching on how they first met, how they became friends, their first date, and when they first knew they were in it for the long haul.

It’s a good conversation, even if March can’t quite push down her nervous energy, and she thinks that by the time they leave, April knows something’s up. 

She holds April’s hand during the ride home, blasting the Fleet Foxes CD April got her for their second anniversary. It’s a sentimental choice, but it’s also a good way to save herself the agony of making conversation when it’s all she can do not to tremble in anticipation. 

When March parks in front of their building, she takes a moment to breathe in deeply, taking in the cool air and letting it clear her head. “Hey,” she says, once April has joined her standing on the driver’s side of the car, “come ‘ere.” She wraps her arms around April, pulling her closer and leaning down into a kiss.

“What’s going on?” April murmurs into her mouth, and March tightens her arms around April’s shoulders. “You’re bein’ weird.”

“Is that a complaint, April?” March teases, pulling away just enough to see her face. She smiles down, enjoying their height difference as much as she always does. 

April leans back in, pressing her face against March’s collarbone. “Nope.” 

They don’t generally make a habit of kissing passionately in the middle of their building’s parking lot, so March eventually pulls away and smooths her hands over April’s face one more time. “Let’s relocate this party,” March breathes, and she can hear April snickering at her.

“Sure, babe.”

They take the stairs, and March lets herself fall behind so April can be the one to unlock the door. 

“Are you ready to -- oh. Wow.” April stays frozen in the doorway for a moment, then stumbles into the living room. “March? Is this, like, a sex thing?”

March follows her inside, and it’s like all her nervous tension disappears when she starts laughing. The apartment really does look good, considering that March has no interior decorating skills. “Well -- not really. No. April, let’s sit down, huh? On the couch.”

“The couch that’s covered in rose petals,” April says. “But this isn’t a sex thing. Right.”

“It isn’t,” March says. “Maybe it will be. We’ll see.” Shit, she’d forgotten to smoothly transfer the ring box from her purse to her hand while April was distracted. She tries to start unzipping her purse as subtly as she can. “Let’s sit down,” she repeats.

April doesn’t seem to know if she should sit directly on the rose petals or move them aside, but she eventually just plops down right on top of them. “March?” She sounds like she’s less confused now. Maybe beginning to understand what’s going on.

Good.

“April,” she says back, smirking a little. Her purse is open now, and March resists the urge to just reach in, metaphorically say ‘fuck it’ to the whole speech she has prepared, and just thrust the ring in April’s face. It’s tempting, but April deserves the speech.

“April,” March says again, because it’s a steadying word for her, “I love you. You’re my best friend, and every day I get to spend with you reminds me how lucky I am to have you in my life. We’ve said so many times that what we have together is meant to be forever, and I want to make that official.” She tries to cut off April’s excited response, as April’s already bouncing up and down in her seat, and digs out the ring box. “April. Baby. Will you marry me?”

“Yes!” April screams, and launches herself onto March’s lap, straddling her and burying her face in March’s neck. “Yes, yes, yes.” She kisses March for a minute, wet and sloppy, then pulls back. “Ring me. Put a fucking ring on it.”

March obliges. 

After several more wet and sloppy minutes, March slides her fingers under the hem of April’s black dress. “Wanna see what I did with the bedroom? I think you’ll like it.” Also, shit, she totally forgot about the playlist that must still be repeating on a loop. That would have been a nice soundtrack to the proposal, but she can’t change that now, and she doesn’t want to change anything about this night anyway. 

“Yeah,” April sighs, leaning into March’s touch. She pauses. “Actually, wait.” 

She sounds serious. 

March freezes.

“I need to tell you something,” April says. “Shit. Okay. Marrying you is my number-one thing, so I don’t want this to take away from that, baby, but -- okay. I got a job offer in Mendon.”

March tugs April closer for another kiss. “Holy shit, that’s great! It’s far away, but that’s amazing. When did you even interview for that?”

April smiles, hesitant but visibly less stressed than even a moment ago. “I interviewed a few times, actually. I just -- I didn’t want to tell you about it, because I didn’t think they’d say yes and I didn’t want to go through all that for nothing. I’m sorry.”

“I’m really proud of you,” March says. And she is, but the initial joy is wearing off, and now she understands why April was worried about telling her about the job. “Mendon’s far away, though, hon. Are you going to say yes? Could you even do the commute?”

“That’s the thing,” April says quietly. “I couldn’t. Do the commute, I mean. If I take it, I’d need to move closer.”

March squeezes her hand, but she doesn’t know what to say.

“Or I could say no,” April says. “I want this to be a real conversation between us, you know? It’s serious; it’s a big deal either way. If I pass up on the job to stay here with you, or if I take it and move.” She takes a strained breath, loud to March’s ears. “If I _did_ take it, I don’t know if you’d think about moving with me, or if we could be long-distance for awhile, but it’s important that we stay a team, okay? I want to marry you, March. That’s more important.”

“I love you,” March says, because that’s always the most important thing, and she wraps April up in a hug. “Let’s just go to bed, huh? You’ve given me a lot to think about, and we should talk about it, but -- later. We’re going to be together, and that’s what counts. So -- bed first, major life decision that sort of came out of left field second, okay?”

“Okay,” April says, laughing a little wetly, and she starts unbuttoning March’s sweater while March reaches back to unzip April’s dress.

They always have been a good team.

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


Unlike most people, Camilla isn’t the biggest fan of sleeping.

Like, obviously she knows she needs it. She carefully carves out seven hours a night to keep herself healthy. But sometimes she asks a new friend what their favorite thing to do is, and they say “Sleep” like it’s supposed to be cute or relatable, and she _really_ can’t relate.

Sleeping is like being dead. Camilla likes being alive, and being awake. There are so many people to talk to, and places to go. Food to eat, books to read, movies to watch, thoughts in her head that she wants to explore. Actually, there’s a big part of her that resents the fact that she needs to sleep at all.

That said, she loves getting ready for bed. She changes into a cute little silk tank top and shorts, pampers her face with a wildly expensive skin care routine, puts on one of her ten million pairs of animal-print socks, and drinks blueberry tea at her window seat. 

As she checks her second cup of tea to see how much longer it needs to steep, Camilla hears her phone chime in the other room. She pads into her bedroom, admiring the little elephants on her socks as she walks. 

Sometimes she’s really distracted by how cute she is. It’s a problem.

Camilla hops onto her bed, bouncing a little off her forearms as she settles in. She picks up her phone and pulls up the new message. 

The last message she’d received from this particular number is three years old. Camilla honestly didn’t expect Lardo to break the radio silence, but apparently Camilla’s pancakes were really that good.

  


  


**From:** Larissa Duan  
do you want to come over again tomorrow? it was good seeing you.

  


  


Camilla smiles and briefly touches the phone to her lips, feeling her smile get bigger. Of course it’s a yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently only breakfast foods exist in this universe. I am at least self-aware. (This fic is filed under: seduction by pancake)


	3. Chapter 3

Sunday, June 20, 2018

  


  


  


Puppy wakes up alone, which is new. He doesn’t think he likes it.

Well, it’s more of an old experience than new, since he’s an only child and had his own room for eighteen years before he started college, but he still doesn’t like it. He was Evan’s roommate for four years, then shared a small room with three other people in San Francisco to keep the rent down, and now he’s lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and there’s nobody snoring or talking or making any sort of noise near him, and it’s _weird_.

He doesn’t miss his roommates from San Francisco, if he’s being honest. He misses when he shared a room with Evan, how their beds were just a few feet apart, how Evan would put on his huge, ugly headphones and look painfully serious when he was doing his homework, how he would lift his arm so Puppy could settle against his side without looking up from his laptop screen at all, like making space for Puppy was second-nature.

Puppy misses Evan, which is ridiculous now that they’re living together, but he misses him -- so he gets out of bed and goes to find him. Maybe Puppy should change into some real clothes, shouldn’t wander around in a wrinkly t-shirt and boxers, but in truth he thinks he looks cute and he kind of wants Evan to think he looks cute too.

When Puppy steps out into the hallway, he can hear that “pretty woman” song playing in the kitchen. He follows the music and finds Evan wearing a t-shirt and basketball shorts, pouring milk into a cereal bowl. 

“Morning,” Puppy says, and laughs when Evan startles and almost spills the milk.

“Morning, asshole,” Evan mumbles, and Puppy laughs again. “You’re on your own for breakfast today, so I hope you got everything.”

Yesterday evening Puppy had forced himself to go grocery shopping. It wasn’t really a hassle, as they’re just a four minute walk from a decent little store, but Puppy hates buying anything that isn’t clothes -- hates doing anything practical at all, really.

“I can provide for myself, you know,” is all he says, though, because he did buy an absolutely ridiculous amount of breakfast food.

As Puppy starts creating his breakfast feast -- pancake mix, potato triangles, thawing out frozen fruit, and some tiny little breakfast sausages that Evan laughs at -- he tries to figure out where he’s heard the new song that’s playing now. He’s pretty sure it’s from the movie Beetlejuice. “I thought you just listened to, like, rap and stuff,” he says, curious. He hadn’t expected Evan to change at all in the year that they were apart, and now Puppy wants to find every little difference, to make sure he understands who Evan is now.

“I listen to all kinds of shit. I’m a well-rounded individual,” Evan says, and then he smirks a little and ruffles Puppy’s hair. “Nah, I’m still mostly listening to rap, but I like the oldies too.”

“Cool,” Puppy says faintly. He can feel his scalp prickling where Evan’s hand had been, and he knows his face is probably turning pink. He turns away to flip his pancakes, and can hear Evan moving off to sit down at the kitchen table. 

Evan’s still sitting there when Puppy’s breakfast is ready, even though Evan’s been done eating his cereal for a long time. He’s working on a crossword puzzle, but he smiles up at Puppy when Puppy pulls out the chair across from him to sit down. “You’re still eating half your daily calories for breakfast, huh?” 

“Fuck off,” Puppy says, as regally as he can, and he watches as Evan smiles and goes back to his crossword. He takes a bite of mango and kicks Evan under the table, just because he can, and squeaks when Evan kicks him back. “Ow!”

Evan doesn’t look up, but his horrible smirk makes Puppy’s skin feel too warm. He feels disastrous. He feels overwhelmed. 

That’s probably the only way to explain why he opens his mouth. “Hey, Evan. Can I -- can I say something?”

Predictably, Evan looks nervous. That tends to happen when you introduce a statement by asking if you have permission to say it. “Uh. Sure?” He looks tense through the shoulders, the fingers around his pencil locking up, white-knuckled.

“I know it’s maybe a bad idea to talk about it,” Puppy says, all in a rush and starting to worry about where his oxygen is going, “but I think we should talk about, um, the whole kissing thing? I know you don’t want to and I’m sorry, but I think we should because otherwise it’ll just _be_ there and that’s not good either.” He clutches his fork in his hand, too anxious to eat. 

Evan isn’t looking directly at him, his eyes widened and slightly unfocused as they bore into the table. He looks like he might say something, but he doesn’t.

Puppy realizes that when he’d said _the whole kissing thing_ , there’s actually more than one kiss that he could be talking about. And that’s -- exciting, or fucked up, depending on the perspective Puppy is choosing to take.

“Yesterday?” he prompts, and Evan glances up at him. “When you -- when we were on the couch. It’s not a big deal, but we should talk about it.” It totally was a big deal, and Puppy _doesn’t_ want to talk about it, but he’s trying to be an adult now. This is probably something an adult would do. 

Evan is breathing hard enough for Puppy to _just_ be able to hear it, but he still doesn’t say anything. Evan stands up, takes his empty cereal bowl to the sink, and rinses it out before leaving it on the counter. Standing there, leaning against the kitchen counter several feet away from Puppy, he still looks uncomfortable, but not quite as scared. “I don’t think we need to talk about it.”

“Why?” Puppy asks. He hates how his voice sounds, confused and almost whining.

“I just don’t want to.” Evan turns around, grabs the bowl and puts it in the dishwasher. He crosses his arms, avoiding Puppy’s eyes. “I don’t want to.”

It’s never been one of Puppy’s habits to let Evan get everything he wants, but he still doesn’t want to ask Evan to do something that upsets him so much. This, added to Puppy’s own nervousness, makes it tempting to just drop it, but he can’t. Or -- he shouldn’t, and he isn’t going to let himself. “No, I think -- it’s okay, I’m not mad or whatever, but we have to talk about it. I’m living here now, and I know it’s kind of weird, but I really need to get this over with.”

Evan gives him a weird look, but he doesn’t move away. 

Puppy doesn’t actually know what to say. He didn’t have a plan, and Evan isn’t helping, and there’s really just one thing he’s been wanting to say for three years, burning and twisting somewhere in his stomach. 

This is going to go so badly, but he might as well do it. “I know you’ve been a super good friend since -- well, forever, actually. And I was sort of scared to come out to you, but that was dumb, because you were super great about that, too. And -- and -- some guys were weird? About me being gay, and they never wanted to be alone with me, or to touch me at all, and you weren’t like that, Evan, and that was so awesome of you. But --” Puppy hasn’t really been looking at Evan, has been staring at a spot on the wall instead, and he sees now that Evan is watching him intently. “But the thing is, I guess I did have a crush on you then, and I wouldn’t say that it’s, like, a hundred percent gone away.”

He’s not looking at Evan, but he hears a scuffling sound, like Evan is fidgeting and moving his feet across the kitchen floor.

“But it’s okay,” Puppy says, trying to sound assured and confident. “It’s not actually a problem, or like a huge thing, and I’m super pumped about living with you and being bros and everything. I wouldn’t even be thinking about it at all -- I just wanted to, like, let you know that maybe you should make sure that when you’re being friendly, you keep it, uh, friendlier? ‘Cause I get that you’re just being nice when you kiss me, like yesterday, but it can be weird for me. So, I guess what I’m saying is, if you want us to be just bros, try to keep the physical stuff more bro-y. Because else I get confused.” He looks up, finally meeting Evan’s eyes. “Um. Sorry.”

Evan is staring at him, something incredulous in his expression. Puppy feels a bolt of terror, quick and then gone -- what if Evan hates him now, thinks it’s gross and sneaky for Puppy to have a crush on him? 

He’d never feel that way, Puppy tells himself. He isn’t going to kid himself into thinking his crush can ever lead to something real, not really, but he also isn’t going to pretend that Evan is _actually_ just his bro. 

Bros don’t have multiple kissing incidents to choose from, for one thing.

Still, he feels like it’s important for him to say this. Because whatever Evan really feels about him, it’s never going to happen. And it hurts when Evan goes toward him just to pull back again, and he doesn’t think he can handle it all the time.

He widens his eyes, waiting for Evan to respond, trying to look cute because that’s really his automatic impulse whenever Evan’s around. Because Evan’s less likely to get mad at him right now if he’s cute, and because he can see the way Evan looks at him sometimes.

“Okay,” Evan says finally. “Sorry, bro, I didn’t know.”

_Like hell you didn’t,_ Puppy thinks, but he thinks it as kindly as he can, and he only feels slightly nauseated when Evan walks out of the kitchen to turn on the TV without saying another word. _I know all about you._

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


It’s been a slow, sprawling morning. April took the car to the bookstore while March was still in bed -- quickly waking her with a kiss and a goodbye before March had fallen back asleep -- and now that March is up, she doesn’t know what to do. They stayed up late talking last night, then later finding better things to do than talk, then even later when they went back to talking more. Trying to figure out their future, and never reaching a solid decision.

They’d talked about communication. March knows April is used to keeping everything locked tightly inside, something she learned from being alone all the time before she got to Samwell, but they’re going to need to keep working on that. Together.

She ends up throwing on a flowy green dress and boots, which might look nice but is really her laziest outfit. After forcing down some granola, March walks the three blocks to a locally owned coffee shop with heartbreakingly expensive blends. She only drinks here once in awhile, but it’s always so worth it. 

Coffee in hand, March tucks herself into a table in the corner, where she can think without feeling like people are watching her. 

But as she sips on her coffee, cringing at the way it burns the roof of her mouth because she always forgets to let it cool down first, March starts to realize she doesn’t have as much to think about as she’d expected.

Because, deep within her, she already knows what she’s going to do. She just needs time to come to terms with it, to let it sink in. 

March sits back, letting the caffeine move through her system, and starts saying goodbye to Boston.

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


It shouldn’t be surprising. While Evan knows he isn’t necessarily the most attractive guy around, he’s decent enough that, on nights when he goes out to bars looking for a hookup, he never has much trouble finding a girl interested in going home with him.

This isn’t like that, though. Puppy actually knows him, knows his _personality_ and his habits and the way he can be immeasurably douchey. And he likes him anyway.

Everyone always said Puppy was stupid, and Evan knows it’s not true, but this is the closest he’s ever been to wondering if they were right. 

And that was a shitty thing to think about his best friend, which kind of proves his point.

Puppy likes him, is the thing, and that’s not a complete surprise -- there was that drunken makeout, and Puppy’s not exactly the most subtle person -- but to hear it out loud, and to hear it described as a _crush_ , a word Evan hasn’t used since he was in middle school -- it’s overwhelming, like a wave crashing over his mind, or maybe like a punch to the gut. 

A crush is something innocent, something you hold close to your heart. Something embarrassing.

Anyway, there’s a small part of Evan that wants to ask Puppy to find a new place to live, as terrible as he knows that is. And Puppy’s sitting right next to him on the couch, watching Storage Wars with him even though the only reality shows Puppy likes are the cooking and wedding ones. But having Puppy so close, knowing Puppy wants him, and knowing he’s too afraid to do anything about it -- yes, there is something about that that makes him want to just end it, and the easiest way to end it would be to make Puppy move out.

He can’t do that. Because it’s unfair, and it would hurt Puppy; he can’t, because he wants Puppy here, even if he has to sacrifice something else.

There’s a mutter at the back of his head, the idea that he could also end this problem by -- by saying he doesn’t want to be Puppy’s bro, and by touching him and kissing him and fucking him in their shared apartment. No one would have to know. Puppy wouldn’t make him tell.

He glances over. Puppy is staring at the TV screen, his eyebrows knotted in confusion because he doesn’t understand the appeal of the show. Evan looks away before Puppy can notice, but the image doesn’t go away -- Puppy’s messy blonde hair, tongue pushing out his lower lip -- and Evan can’t do that to him either. Maybe other people can form healthy relationships while they’re closeted, while everything’s a secret, but Evan knows he couldn’t. He’d screw everything up, and Puppy would feel embarrassed and used, and he’d be right.

The only options Evan still has are to tell everyone, or to pretend he just sees Puppy as a friend.

He’s going with the second option, because it sucks, and it makes him feel like he might have accidentally swallowed shards of glass or something, but it also doesn’t have the potential to ruin his entire life.

“Hey, are you okay?” Puppy asks, and he’s leaning in closer than Evan wants him to, close enough that his breath feels warm and Evan can easily imagine what would happen if he leaned in a few inches. “You seem super stressed.”

Evan shrugs, and his shoulder bumps into Puppy’s. He leans into the touch instead of away from it, because sometimes feeling Puppy’s body against his own is the only way he can feel right. It’s always been like that for him, ever since he first met Puppy.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, and he feels Puppy’s hand, cautiously reaching out to pat Evan’s knee. Evan knows it’s not the right thing to do, but he catches Puppy’s hand, holds on tightly and doesn’t let go. He tries to focus on the show, or at least pretends to.

“You sure?” Puppy asks doubtfully. 

There’s a lot in that question, a lot, and Evan tries not to hear it. He relaxes his grip on Puppy’s hand, though, enough that Puppy could pull away if he wanted to, but Puppy doesn’t move. “Yeah,” Evan says, eyes still on the TV. “It’s whatever, bro.”

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


Camilla and Lardo trade messages early in the morning, and Camilla convinces Lardo to join her at a quaint little restaurant, hidden away on the second floor of a building with a gym on the first floor. She dresses carefully, in a warmly colored floral romper that she knows makes her legs look amazing. And yeah, she knows Lardo is more of a boobs girl, but Camilla’s an independent woman and she dresses for _herself_. She slips on a pair of spring-green pumps that complement the tiny hints of green in the romper, and she’s only three minutes late for breakfast.

Lardo’s already waiting, which is a bit surprising. They used to be late together. But Lardo’s already seated, and at least she’s not wearing all black today. Camilla recognizes her shirt from Samwell, and notes that her hair’s brushed. 

“Hi,” Camilla says, a bit softly, sliding into the booth seat across from Lardo. “Were you waiting long?”

Lardo shakes her head. “I just got the menus. Haven’t decided what to get yet.”

Camilla opts not to tell Lardo just yet that she’s going to take care of the whole bill; Lardo gets kind of weird about gestures, and if she thinks Camilla’s trying to woo her and start dating her again, she might clam up.

To be fair, Camilla is totally trying to woo her. The jury’s still out on if Camilla wants to _date_ her again, but why not? 

“They have really good French toast here,” Camilla says instead. “With, like, fruit in it.”

Lardo wrinkles her nose in judgment, and Camilla really had forgotten how every little thing this girl does shoots like tiny sparks through her heart. “I’ll probably just get pancakes.”

“You just had pancakes,” Camilla says, tapping her foot against Lardo’s shin under the table.

“...Oh,” Lardo says, looking betrayed that Camilla knows about her eating habits, even though Camilla’s the one who made the damn pancakes. “Then eggs and bacon, I guess.”

“Protein,” Camilla says approvingly, and smiles down at her menu because she knows Lardo’s giving her a dirty look. 

They order, and Camilla gets a mimosa because she wants to treat herself. She blinks innocently through Lardo’s slightly judgmental stare -- Lardo has never understood why anyone would drink in the morning -- and they make pleasant, slightly awkward small talk while they wait for their meals.

“Okay,” Camilla says once the food arrives, and watches Lardo tense up. God, this girl is so predictable. “We talked a lot yesterday. I thought about what you said, and now I want to talk at you for a little while. Okay?”

Lardo extends a hand carelessly, like she’s inviting Camilla to go on. Sarcastic little fucker.

“You told me,” Camilla says, careful to keep her voice low even though there’s barely anyone else in the restaurant, “that you have zero energy, and you feel emotionally dead, and you don’t have anything in common with your old friends anymore. Right?”

Lardo shrugs, uncomfortable.

Camilla leans forward. “I have a quick question for you. Is the lease on your place month-to-month, or are you committed for a longer chunk of time?”

“I’m month-to-month,” Lardo says slowly. “Why?” She obviously knows why.

“I wonder what would happen if you moved out,” Camilla says. She’s kind of talking to Lardo like she’s a jumpy cat, but that’s because Lardo _is_ a jumpy cat when it comes to her emotions, and when it comes to people telling her what to do. “Sometimes it’s easier to feel depressed when there’s no one around to pick you up. It helps to have people around to talk to, and it makes it easier to clean up after yourself, because you don’t want them to think you’re gross or whatever. I know I would be a huge mess if I didn’t live with the girls I live with.” 

Lardo doesn’t look convinced, but she just tightens her shoulders and looks down at her plate. “I could move, but I don’t know where I’d live. And I live in a shitty area, so the rent is cheap. I don’t know if I could afford to live somewhere else.”

“Maybe it’s not as cheap as you think it is,” Camilla says. “You’re living by yourself in a two-bedroom. How cheap can it be?”

Lardo pauses. “Cheaper than a two-bedroom anywhere else. And I wanted the extra room for an art studio.” 

Camilla eats more of her raspberry French toast, mostly to prevent herself from showing how frustrated she is. Finally, she says, “For painting? Or do you need it for other stuff too?”

“Painting.”

“I bet you’d be able to keep painting without the extra room,” Camilla says. Like it isn’t obvious. “Maybe in the kitchen, or if you had a place with a basement.”

Lardo just hunches over more. “I don’t like painting where people can watch me.”

This is getting ridiculous. Camilla counts the ice cubes in her water, then takes a healthy swig of her mimosa. “You could try painting in your own room. Open the windows to air out the paint smell.” 

“But --” Lardo sighs, slumping down a little. “Probably. You’re probably right. But I don’t know where I’d live. I don’t even know who to ask.” 

“None of your art friends have an open spot?” Camilla asks. “Even if you haven’t talked to anyone in a long time, it’s not weird to ask. And you could always check the Facebook page for all the Samwell students in your graduating class? Sometimes people post on there when they’re looking for a roommate.”

Lardo looks up at her. There’s a faint glimmer of her old self in there, at least for a moment. “You’ve thought about this a lot.” 

Camilla wants to lean forward and touch Lardo’s hand, but she doesn’t. Instead, she smiles in the way she knows dazzles most people. “Of course I did. You think I make pancakes for just anybody?”

“Um -- oh --” Lardo looks around, blushing and self-conscious, and then does a little double-take. “You know, this place is cool and all, but I’m not sure I’m a big fan of their song selection. It’s a weird mood.”

They’re playing “Father Figure,” and Camilla is more than a little offended; George Michael is very important to her. “You don’t like the 80s?”

“I mean, it’s fine,” Lardo says, and she clearly doesn’t mean it. She is an 80s _hater_. “Maybe a few times a year. Or never.”

“Larissa.” Camilla extends her palms, gazing deep in Lardo’s eyes. “Come here. I need to tell you something.”

Lardo makes a weird face, but she slowly drops her hands into Camilla’s, right as Camilla finishes by saying, in perfect time with the song, “Put your tiny hands in mine.”

Lardo yanks her hands away. “Never seduce me with 80s lyrics again. That’s a ground rule.” But the corners of her mouth are twitching, and soon she’s laughing. “Camilla, you haven’t changed.”

Camilla rolls her eyes, readjusting her romper in the chest area so she knows her boobs look good. “Who says I’m trying to seduce you?”

Lardo raises an eyebrow at her, and that one movement is more than enough to remind Camilla of what they did yesterday. How their bodies picked up right where they left off. “You’re --” Lardo purses her lips and doesn’t finish the thought. She eats more of her bacon.

“We might as well,” Camilla sighs. It was on her unofficial to-do list for this conversation. If this list were actually written out, it would probably look something like: _Enjoy good food - Subtly remind Lardo of how cute I am - Convince Lardo to move out of her Hermit Hole and rejoin society - Reaffirm that I care about Lardo and that her old friends still care too - Find out if she’d be down to keep hitting this._

“Oh boy,” Lardo says, like she’s resigning herself to her fate. Camilla takes offense at that, honestly. “Okay. Go.” 

Camilla has an annoying urge to tell Lardo she’s being too flippant, which is a sign that Camilla’s becoming her mom, which sucks ass. But she tries to not be her mom, at least for one conversation. “I want to keep seeing you. Yesterday was good, and obviously I would be all for us trying things out again, but the main thing is that I want to be in your life. I want you to be in my life.”

There -- she put it all out there, and she actually phrased it somewhat romantically. So, naturally, Lardo ignores that part and focuses elsewhere. “When you say _trying things out again_ , is that, like, dating? Sex? I don’t….” Lardo bites her lip and looks down, flustered.

Lardo doesn’t usually do flustered, so Camilla tries not to take it personally that her romantic speech just got picked apart. “Lards, come on. Of course I want to date you again; it would take a lot more than three years to get over you.” 

“Oh,” Lardo whispers, looking like she’s about to cry. Camilla looks down and tries to look normal even though a.) she’s freaking out after putting her heart on the line, and b.) she’s realizing that her big romantic speech sounded like a bastardization of the lyrics to Toto’s “Africa” and she’s hoping Lardo won’t pick up on it, because that would be embarrassing.

That’s not important. Maybe a good story for later, but not important right now. “Look,” Camilla says, leaning forward and trying to get Lardo to look at her. “I want to tell you the truth without making you feel bad, or making you feel self-conscious, but that might not be feasible. So here goes. I haven’t seen you in a long time, and when I saw how you’re doing, and what your everyday life looks like, it made me really sad. And scared for you, because you don’t get a do-over on your life, and right now you’re so isolated and feeling so purposeless that you don’t even care enough to make your life better. Or you don’t think you can. But I care, and I really, really want to be the person to swoop in and make things better for you. You know that’s how I am, and I swear I’m better about it now. I won’t pressure you to do anything you don’t think is the right thing for you to do. But babe, you’re killing yourself, and you have so many people who love you and would do anything for you. _Anything_. You know you’re a sensitive artist, Lards; you’re not the type of person who should live alone. You need other people to bring you up, and that’s okay. I just --” She buries her face in her hands for a second, a little out of breath, but barrels on. She might as well. “I care about you so much, and I _admire_ you so much. You’re witty and playful and thoughtful and really fucking smart, and all of that is still who you are. It always will be. But you don’t see it anymore, and you’re going to let yourself keep drifting away from who you really can be unless you change something. I want to be the one to help you change, to make your life better, but I can’t do that. You have to do it. I just want to help you.”

Lardo is staring at her, clutching her fork like a lifeline, and Camilla feels lightheaded. She doesn’t know if she fucked up or did something right; she can barely remember half of what she just said. 

The server comes by to ask if everything’s tasting alright.

“It’s amazing, thank you,” Camilla says, and Lardo nods.

They’re alone again, and Camilla finishes her mimosa. She waits until she feels settled, then looks across the table. 

Lardo’s looking at her. Not with narrowed eyes, suspicious or faking annoyance like before. Not awkwardly, chewing on her mouth and peeking up as if making eye contact is scary, like she had earlier. Just -- waiting, like she wants something but won’t ask for it. The type of look that makes Camilla want to smooth out her dark eyebrows and cup Lardo’s face in her hands. 

“I want to be part of your life,” Camilla says simply.

Lardo nods, like she’s thinking, not necessarily agreeing to anything. She looks down at the eggs remaining on her plate. She looks up. “I like having you in my life. But I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what I can do.” 

Camilla nods. “Let me know, though, okay?”

“Sure.” Lardo finishes her eggs. “Thanks,” she adds, looking like she wants to say more, but she doesn’t finish and Camilla doesn’t push -- she’s probably already pushed enough for one weekend.

When they finish, Lardo doesn’t fight Camilla to pay, but she gives her a flat look after the server walks away. “Is this because I’m poor?”

“No, babe,” Camilla laughs, “it’s because I want to date you.”

They leave, and they have to go different directions because of where they parked. “Thanks for all this,” Lardo says again, and she reaches out for a quick one-armed hug that Camilla turns into a real one. “By the way, I love your shoes,” Lardo says when she pulls away. 

Camilla looks down and enjoys their beautiful greenness all over again. “Thanks. It’s a struggle not to stare at them while I’m walking, for real.”

Lardo snickers at her, and she looks so dorky and happy for a moment that Camilla has to catch her breath. “Yeah, I bet you do. Thanks, Camilla. I’ll text you or something soon, okay?”

“Okay,” Camilla says, tossing out her flirtiest smile and waving as Lardo turns to go. 

“Actually --” 

Camilla turns around. Lardo has stopped walking, and she looks nervous. “Do you want to come over? Just for an hour or so. My kitchen’s getting messy again.”

“Sure,” Camilla laughs, enjoying the way the wind catches in her hair, “but you can clean your own kitchen this time. I’ll drive over and meet you there, alright?”

When Camilla gets in her car, she doesn’t feel nervous at all. She checks that her phone’s volume is way up, and then it’s easy to drive away from the restaurant. The radio’s playing that stupid “7 Years” song, so she changes to the oldies station and sings along to “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.” The window’s open and her curls are flying everywhere, and she feels like, for once, she knows where she’s going.

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


He’s been back in the Boston area for just a couple days, and Puppy’s only gone out of the apartment, like, twice. This isn’t really like him; he’s the type who wants to stretch out under the sun and run around in the grass and, in general, act like a lax bro. 

But Evan isn’t like that anymore. He spends a lot of time inside. And it’s sort of pathetic, but Puppy just wants to be where Evan is.

He’s going to lose his tan over this guy. 

But today, at least, he’s been invited to go on a walk with Ola and Bitty. It’s a pleasant, warm Sunday, just a little too hot, and he meets them outside of a little shop where they’d just finished grabbing muffins and coffee together.

“Their stuff is heavenly, Puppy, don’t you want to run in and order something?” Ola asks, but Puppy shakes his head. His appetite is low today, either because of his late breakfast or just from stress after his conversation with Evan. 

“Puppy, please,” Bitty says, eyes big, “I’m begging you to go in there and order a zebra mocha. I want good things for you.”

That does sound good, and Puppy isn’t exactly a tough sell when it comes to chocolate-flavored anything, so he orders one and makes a big show of enjoying it for Bitty. It _is_ really good, though, and he has to work not to drink it too fast, even though it’s hot outside.

They chat about nothing for a while, the three of them winding through the city blocks, and then they talk about, like, the moral and philosophical assumptions behind different political ideologies, for some reason, and then they move into their most comfortable topic of conversation -- their own social circle. 

Bitty seems convinced that Holster and Ransom will be engaged any day now, which thrills Puppy but also makes him feel a twinge of -- well, he’s not sure what, but it’s just weird to see people he went to school with settling down, creating actual families and everything. Just… weird.

“Ola?” Bitty asks, too innocent. “What about you? Things have been serious between you and Chad for years now, right?” 

“Yeah,” Puppy agrees. Then, because he likes to annoy Ola, “Get married.”

Ola scowls and theatrically turns her nose up in the air. “I’m too young for that. I can’t be tied down to just one man yet, come on.”

Bitty links his arm with Puppy’s. “That’s okay, we can wait.”

“I just really want to dance at your wedding, is all,” Puppy says. He tries to sound sad, but Ola smacks him on the shoulder and he can’t help but laugh.

“Puppy,” Ola says fondly. Or maybe wryly. It’s hard to tell. “How about you? I haven’t actually talked to you in a few months. How’s the love life? I mean, I know you just moved back, but are you still a total ho?”

“Mmm, probably not,” Puppy says. He doesn’t feel embarrassed at all about how many guys he slept with in his last two years at Samwell -- and shit, it was a lot of guys, probably at least 80% of the gay and bi dudes available -- but it didn’t really feel necessary to keep going at that pace after he graduated. “I mean, I hooked up a _little_ bit when I was in California, but not super often, and it wasn’t ever, like, serious.”

Bitty seems to light up, bright and excited for no particular reason as far as Puppy can tell. “Ooh, what if we -- now don’t say no until you really think about it -- but what if we made you a Tinder account? Or something? I don’t actually know what the best one to use is, but you know what I mean.”

Puppy grins and bumps into Bitty, sending him staggering a few steps. “You don’t know because you landed in a stupid fairy tale romance without even trying, we get it. But I think I already have one? Unless I deleted it. I don’t remember.”

“I have to see this,” Ola says. “Pull it up. Right now. There is literally no way in hell you made a decent bio on your own; we have to _help_ you.”

“Right,” Bitty says, and he’s clearly enjoying this far too much. “We have to save you from yourself. You don’t have a picture with a fish on there, do you?”

“What?” Puppy complains. “Ew, no. I don’t go fishing.” He grins at them, and he can enjoy fucking with them just as much as they enjoy doing it to him. “I do have a cool picture of me doing the whole bathroom mirror selfie thing, though.”

“God, Puppy, no,” Bitty says, at the same time that Ola groans, “ _Cool_ doesn’t belong in that sentence. _Cool_ makes that whole thing an oxymoron.”

“You’re just hating on me ‘cause you’re jealous of my abs,” Puppy says, and he ignores the way Ola’s holding out her hand, demanding he hand over his phone. “I don’t really want to use Tinder or anything. It’s cool.” 

Bitty looks so _distraught_. “Puppy. Peter. We just want to find you a boyfriend with big, strong arms who can love you the way you deserve. Please, please, please?”

“What,” Puppy mumbles. “Uh. That’s very thoughtful of you. But I don’t really want to date right now, you know?”

Ola touches his hair softly. “Who hurt you? This isn’t the Puppy I know. Give me a name and I’ll send Chad after them. He can lead the other Chads from the lacrosse team. A little army of vindictive Chads.”

Puppy thinks he’s still red in the face. He drains the rest of his zebra mocha and scowls at both of them. “Nobody hurt me! I just. Don’t want to date right now. I like somebody already.”

Ola and Bitty both stare at him, delight dawning in their eyes, and Puppy should regret telling them, he really, really should, but he _doesn’t_. He’s happy he told them, actually, and he realizes that he’s smiling. “Oh, shit,” Ola says. “We need to sit down. We need to find a bench.”

“I found a bench,” Bitty says, pointing, as if it’s impressive that he noticed the empty bench literally ten feet away from them. “Puppy, sit down. Tell us everything. _Confess._ ”

Puppy sits down. He doesn’t really like the change; before, when they were walking, it was easy to feel slightly distracted, but now their eyes are on him like creepy hawks. He still feels a buzz of energy in his stomach, excited now that his dumb feelings are about to become interesting gossip.

Ola kicks him. “Puppy. Spill.”

“Okay, but you can’t tell other people about this right now,” Puppy says, all in a rush -- because, like, he’s always known that he needs to be open and share things, but he hadn’t realized until right now, feeling the heaviness leave his body, how much it would help him to tell his friends about this. And he’s organizing everything in his mind as fast as he can, figuring out what can be shared and what needs to be kept a secret for the sake of Evan’s privacy, but that barely stresses him out. “I’m, like, super in love with Evan. Help.”

It’s _ridiculously_ funny, the way Ola and Bitty gasp in perfect unison, the way they both grab onto his nearest elbow -- one on each side -- and dig their fingernails in. It’s hard to actually make out what each of them is saying, since it’s all kind of a garble of yelling and laughing and talking super fast, but the gist is that they’re really fucking excited and happy.

Which, like. On one hand, Puppy likes when people are happy for him, but on the other hand, both of them have every reason to believe that Evan is straight, so it’s kind of weird that they _want_ him to be tragically in love with his straight friend. “I am literally a disaster for moving in with him when I knew this was going to be a thing for me,” he says, but he really can’t stop himself from smiling, even as he’s trying to sound like he’s feeling sorry for himself. “He’s just so _cute_ and _stupid_ , I hate him.”

“Aww,” says Ola.

“It’s awful,” Puppy sighs. 

Bitty leans into him. “Think about telling him?”

What -- that’s a weirdly terrible suggestion. It makes Puppy wonder if Bitty has, like, picked up on the signs that Evan almost definitely isn’t straight, but that’s probably not it. Evan’s always so good at hiding it; it’s actually super depressing. “Bitsicle. Bitunia. No. Why would that be a good idea?”

Bitty shrugs. “If he’s straight, he’ll say no and still like you as a friend. If he isn’t, he’ll fall into your arms. You can do it.” 

“Whatever, he loves you,” Ola says decisively. “Like, he’s a horrible little asshole, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve never seen him happier or gentler than when he’s with you.”

Puppy doesn’t know whether to cry or laugh. “You want me to be with him even though you think he’s a horrible little asshole?”

Ola grins. “Term of endearment.” 

“All I’m gonna say,” Bitty says, and there’s almost no chance in hell that this is _really_ all he’s going to say, “is that there’s a good chance it could happen. You’re ridiculously lovable, you know. And he loves the shit out of you.”

“Oh,” Puppy says. 

“I don’t want to sound like it’s totally gonna happen,” Bitty clarifies. “Obviously. But it could. It really could.”

Puppy kind of thinks so too. The dangerous thing about hope, of course, is how it makes disappointment all the more painful later on. But he’s always liked hope anyway. “It could,” he says, and digs his elbows into their sides, just for fun. “I think it could too.”

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


“Thank you, have a nice rest of your day,” April says mechanically. She hands the customer his plastic bag, books inside, and waits until he’s exited the bookstore to flop back on her chair and sigh. Her shift’s not even halfway over, and she’s already mentally drained. For once, she misses the busy atmosphere of Starbucks -- the bookstore’s so quiet, and it’s hard for her to keep switching back to employee-mode when customers wander in. 

April glances at the door again, frowning, and pulls out her phone. She scrolls through the news for a few minutes, her frown deepening, and only snaps out of it when she notices her engagement ring. Her heart jumps like it’s the first time she’s seeing it.

God, it’s beautiful. April’s not really into jewelry, so she doesn’t even know if it’s beautiful in a conventional or objective sense; it’s beautiful because it means she’ll be with March forever, wherever that might be.

\-- And now her frown’s gone. She feels like she won’t ever frown again, as unreasonable as that might be. 

April’s just thinking about whether or not it would be horrifically cheesy to kiss her ring when the door jingles open again. She keeps her eyes down, waiting about fifteen seconds like always, so the customer can get their bearings first, before she looks up to say “Let me know if I can help you find anything.”

But she only gets out “Let me kn--” because it’s not a regular customer. It’s March. 

“Hey,” April breathes, sounding like a lovestruck teenager, which is embarrassing. She touches her ring and grins stupidly.

March walks easily around to the employee side of the desk, wrapping April up in a tight hug. “Hey, gorgeous,” she says into April’s ear, and April rolls her eyes, still smiling. “Thought I’d check on you.”

“Store hasn’t burned down yet,” April says, giving March a hip-check and settling back into her chair. “How are you doing?”

“Good,” March says, and then turns a little red. “This isn’t exactly going to plan. Already.” 

April raises her eyebrows and waits for March’s plan, whatever it is, to get started. She thinks this is a good thing. March’s arm around her is always a good thing, and she wouldn’t come in like this, blushing and talking about a “plan,” if it weren’t a good thing.

“Okay,” March says. She takes a deep breath, and April controls her face so it doesn’t look like she’s laughing at her, even though she totally is on the inside. “This is going to be majorly corny, but just work with me here.” 

April nods, and then March gets down on one knee. 

“April,” she says, serious and holding back a laugh and teary-eyed all at once, “I love you. You’re my best friend, and I know that we deserve to be together forever. You’re so amazing, and I’m so proud of the success you’ve achieved. So will you move to Mendon with me?” 

“That’s a yes,” April chokes out, and she tugs March as close as possible. She thinks she hears another jingle at the door, but she doesn’t care.

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


Sunday is supposed to be the day of rest or whatever, not that Evan’s religious at all, but he’s totally fucking up at the whole resting thing. He feels like he’s having the doesn’t-have-anxiety version of an anxiety attack, which mostly looks like him lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, and thinking “Why me?” over and over and over.

God doesn’t answer, which isn’t surprising. Evan doesn’t actually believe in God, but it also would be kinda nice for someone reassuring and wise to, like, tell him stuff that will make him feel better. 

Puppy isn’t there, because Puppy went out with Bitty and Ola an hour ago and probably won’t be back for awhile. It makes Evan feel kind of jealous, in a weird way -- back when they were at Samwell, Evan totally would have been invited along with them, but he’s kind of… frozen a lot of people out, this last year. He still talks to Ola, mostly because she and Chad never get off his case, but he doesn’t actually know Bitty anymore. Bitty graduated a year before him, and they didn’t exactly keep in contact after that.

Evan kind of became more of an asshole after graduating. He’s aware of that. He was _fine_ with that, until very recently, and it’s weird to have a vague interest in rekindling old friendships when he doesn’t actually know how. 

Also, Puppy left his purple hoodie on the couch, and it smells like him, and Evan keeps getting disgusted with himself for holding it, but he also can’t put it down for long. That’s _so_ not a bro thing, and he is completely fucked.

Before he can go down that mental road much farther, his phone rings, Chad’s name appearing on the screen.

“Yeah?” Evan asks, still staring at the ceiling. He puts the phone on speaker so he can really commit to feeling depressed, so he doesn’t have to do all the work of holding the phone to his ear.

Chad exhales heavily, the way he often does when he’s talking with Evan. Because Evan is a drain on his life, or whatever. “‘Sup, Ev, is Ola over there?”

“Nope,” Evan says. “Hey, here’s a thought -- maybe you should call _her_ instead of me.” He’s not genuinely being a tool; it’s part of the whole conversing-with-Chad thing. He has to act like talking to Chad is a big inconvenience on his day, for reasons of, like, pride and dignity or something. 

Chad’s used to it by now. It’s probably why Evan’s a drain on his life.

“Her phone died, asshole,” Chad says, but in a sort of pleasant way. “Think she’ll be back soon?”

“No idea.” 

There’s a pause. “Hey,” Chad says carefully, “you okay, man? You sound, like, depressed or something. What’s up?”

Evan tries to imagine what it would be like to just -- tell Chad everything. It’s not like Chad’s, like, God or whatever, but Chad _was_ his captain, and on their team that’s almost the same thing. 

“I’m doing great, bro,” Evan says. He’s aware that the complete absence of energy in his voice makes it pretty obvious that he’s lying, but he can’t really change that. 

“That’s believable.”

“Hey, fuck you,” Evan mutters. He kind of means it, too -- it’s embarrassing, in a weird way, to be seen through. And he’s so entrenched in self-pity that it kind of pisses him off to be laughed at.

Not that Chad was even laughing. Just -- flippant. Ugh.

“Evan.” There’s a long pause, during which Evan starts to squirm a little. “Bro. I know you’re not fine. It’s been, like, two months since I saw you smile, or at least smile for real. But you don’t have to talk about it.”

The purple hoodie Puppy left behind smells really good. Evan buries his face in it and tries not to feel more than one emotion at a time, because he’s not used to it and he’s worried his body will, like, collapse if he feels too much.

Chad sighs over the phone. “You know what, I shouldn’t have said that. Your business is your business, and it’s cool. What are you up to now?”

“My life sucks,” Evan groans, before he can really think about what he’s saying. It just slips out.

“Yeah?” Chad prompts, because he’s the worst and isn’t going to let Evan pretend he didn’t say anything.

Evan leaves the purple hoodie on his face, over his eyes and blocking out most of the light. He feels calmer that way, and smaller, like he can say whatever he feels like without consequences. “I don’t know. Puppy moved back and it’s -- weird.”

“How’s it weird?”

“I dunno. Whatever.” Evan flips over onto his side. He wants to hang up and never talk about this again. He also wants to keep going, to say everything. 

“Is it weird seeing him when you haven’t talked much this year?” Chad tries. “You both changed a lot since you graduated, and you used to do everything together. That’s probably hard to get used to.”

Evan can feel the sofa fabric scratching against his cheek. “It’s not important. I mean, we’re still friends. It’s been pretty good.”

Chad hesitates, silent on the other end for a long moment. “Well, that’s good. I wouldn’t want to have to drag you guys to, like, couples’ counseling or something.” He laughs, easy, like it didn’t mean anything.

“Ha ha, funny,” Evan says sourly. “Whatever, what about you? When are you gonna get married and get out of my hair?”

“Hey, I’m not ready to settle down just yet. How can I commit to just one woman when I’m so fucking good-looking?”

Evan makes a disgusted noise. “You’re full of shit. As long as I get to be a groomsman, I don’t care. Asshole.”

“Like you’re one to talk about getting married,” Chad says, and his eye-roll is palpable. “Jesus, how long’s it been since you had an actual girlfriend, bro?”

“I’m getting plenty of action,” Evan mumbles into the sofa cushion. 

“ _Action_ isn’t the same thing as dating,” Chad says mildly. “But whatever, I’m just giving you a hard time. Seriously, it’s hard to imagine you with a girlfriend. You need to seriously get in touch with your feelings before you do that, dude. Like, trust me.”

Evan clenches his fingers around the edge of the sofa, pushes all his tension into that grip. “Whatever. You’re right, I don’t even want a girlfriend anyway.” Shit, he should have -- “Right now, I mean.” Which is _true_ , because he just hasn’t been thinking about serious relationships, has just been focused on hooking up, but that sounds like --

“Oh, hey, wait,” Chad says. “Please pretend I’m way more mature and thoughtful than I actually am when I say this, but if you’re gay, you can totally tell me. It’s cool. Like, I went to Samwell too, bro.”

“Uh,” Evan says. His throat feels dry. “I’m not.”

“Alright,” Chad says, with more cheerfulness than he probably feels. “Just checkin’.”

And -- this is something that’s been there Evan’s whole life, almost. Years poking at his subconscious, then years being stomped down in anger, then years spent trying to tie it down, to tame it. He doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that this is the first week of his entire life where he’s actually considered, even for a minute, that it might be nice to tell someone, and that this is also the first time in his life that someone’s asked him about it directly -- not in a mocking way, like it’s an insult, but as a friend. 

It’s probably fate, minus the whole fate thing since fate doesn’t exist, but Evan’s suddenly afraid that no one’s ever going to ask him again. Which is the only reason that he finds himself saying, “I’m -- I like both, I guess.” He doesn’t know what he’s doing. 

There’s a telling pause, like Chad has no idea what to say, but he recovers quickly enough. “Oh. Cool. I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Evan mutters. He’s not angry, exactly, except his whole body has too much adrenaline in it now, and it kind of does feel like rage. But he doesn’t want to snap at Chad, because that would be way too transparent and he’d look pathetic. “‘Cause I didn’t tell you, jackass.”

“Yeah,” Chad says. “Is that -- I don’t know, is that, like, a secret?”

Evan shrugs, doesn’t answer. He tosses Puppy’s hoodie over the side of the sofa; it’s suddenly overwhelming.

“Well, cool. I won’t mention it to Ola. Unless she already knows?”

Evan doesn’t think Ola knows. Except that she knows everything, but he never _told_ her, and if there’s a chance that she could figure it out on her own, that means other people could too, and now he wishes he didn’t throw the hoodie so far away because he really wants to smell it again. 

“Okay, so I’m taking that as a _no, Chad, don’t tell Ola._ Also _shut the fuck up, Chad_. Which is a rude way to talk to your captain, but you’ve always been kind of a dick, right?” 

“Yeah, whatever,” Evan says. He can breathe again. “I mean, yeah, don’t say anything.”

“Dude, I’m happy for you, though,” Chad says. “No pressure, but marry Puppy. Who said that? Anyway, I’m --”

“What?!” 

“ _Anyway_ , I’m late for this terrible art class I signed up for, so I gotta go, but dude. You’re the best. I love and support you. Anything else?”

Evan groans, pretends he isn’t still shaking a little bit. “Ugh. No.”

“‘Kay, bye,” Chad says, and he hangs up.

Evan feels vaguely sick. He feels a lot of things -- proud of himself, scared of what will happen, excited about what might happen, and definitely, definitely ready for a nap.

He takes Puppy’s purple hoodie with him when he crawls into bed. Normally he wouldn’t let himself do something like that, but he feels like he earned this one.

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


Lardo parks her car in the street and goes into her apartment. She doesn’t know if she and Camilla are going to hook up again -- they probably shouldn’t -- but she puts on extra deodorant and changes her underwear just in case. She sprays the apartment with that Glade stuff Camilla had uncovered before. Then she sits on the couch and tries not to freak out.

It’s been ten minutes and Camilla isn’t here yet, and Lardo is already convinced this is because Lardo’s too boring and depressing to be around, and that she won’t hear from Camilla in at least a week, when she hears a quick car-honk outside.

She opens the door and waits for Camilla to let herself into the building. “Your neighbors are endangering your safety,” Camilla observes once she’s inside. “Always leaving the door propped open like this.”

Lardo shrugs. “I don’t care. Just means I don’t have to use my key.”

“Well, if you don’t have to use your _key_ ,” Camilla says, rolling her eyes theatrically. “Now show me your kitchen. I can’t believe you already made a mess.”

Lardo didn’t really think Camilla was going to clean the kitchen again, but she stands there and watches as Camilla loads the dishwasher, wipes down the counter, and checks the sink for any extra mess. “Thanks,” she offers. It’s suddenly hard to keep her face neutral; she thinks she must be the most boring person Camilla ever spends time with, and if Camilla really does still like her, she’s probably going to realize it was a mistake soon. 

This might be Lardo’s last chance to be good enough. She’s not sure what to do. 

“Wanna hang out in your room?” Camilla asks brightly, and Lardo reminds herself that having sex would be a bad decision right now. She can’t remember why, though. 

But when she sits down on her bed, Camilla just settles on the floor. Camilla glances up at her. “Mind if I look through your bookshelf?” 

Lardo shrugs. She has more books than she can probably afford, and she hasn’t read most of them. There’s just something she likes about hunting through used bookstores, either to find something that looks incredible or something that looks incredibly shitty. 

Actually, she hasn’t gone book shopping in awhile. Maybe a year. 

Camilla doesn’t offer any commentary as she examines the books. Lardo thinks about telling her that she hasn’t actually read very many of them, but instead she just lies down and watches.

“Aw,” Camilla says, minutes later. “You still have this?”

It’s one of Camilla’s old knits that she’d given Lardo back in college, this one a teal beanie that Lardo never feels happy enough to wear. There are more, scattered in her closet and tucked into drawers, but this one’s lying out on the carpet because Lardo had been trying it on this morning. Wondering if she should wear it out to breakfast, because it still makes her hair look shiny and her eyes look brighter.

In the end she hadn’t, obviously. Because she wasn’t sure she could still pull it off, and because she wasn’t sure she wanted Camilla to know she had kept it.

“Oh,” she says. “Yeah.”

Lardo watches as Camilla puts the hat on, sweeping her blonde hair to the side and beaming up at Lardo. “Do I look fresh?” she asks, and Lardo can’t stand being far away from her, so she lets herself fall hard off the bed and onto the floor, landing on her knees and scooting the few extra feet toward Camilla. “Lards? You okay, babe?” 

She doesn’t understand why Camilla is asking that; then she feels the way her mouth is pulled back in a grimace, and she feels the prickling of tears forming in her eyes. _I’m okay,_ she wants to say, but she’s afraid her voice would crack, so she just shrugs.

“Oh, Larissa,” Camilla sighs, warm and unsurprised, and she pulls Lardo closer, hugs her and holds on tight. “Things suck, don’t they?”

If it’s anything, it’s the way her face is pressed against Camilla’s neck, the way she can smell the same peachy perfume Camilla wore in college, that causes Lardo to crumble. Or maybe there’s no specific reason. Either way, she’s gasping and crying into Camilla’s shoulder, sobbing harder when she feels Camilla start rubbing her back. “I don’t know what to d-do,” she manages, and hearing her own voice just makes her cry harder.

“Shhh, you’re doing great,” Camilla says. That makes her cry harder too.

When Lardo feels like she’s gotten it all out of her system, she keeps her face where it is, safely tucked into Camilla’s shoulder where Camilla can’t see her. She doesn’t feel embarrassed, at least not yet; she just feels tired out, and maybe like she’s ready to find a solution.

It feels like if she doesn’t find a solution now, she’ll disappear. 

Things were easier a few days ago. Then, she’d felt empty and numb, insulated from all possible emotions. Camilla has a tendency to wake people up, though.

“What are you feeling right now?” Camilla asks. For Camilla, feelings are easy to name off, like she’s just scanning a list and finding things right away. Lardo usually has to approach her own feelings like she’s diving for buried treasure or something equally ridiculous and convoluted. Something that requires specialized equipment. 

Still, the one advantage of a messy, sobbing breakdown is that it’s easy to find her emotions right now.

“I’m scared,” she says honestly. After all that crying, a confession feels natural, even necessary. “I know I’m fucking my life up, and the scary part is I don’t even notice or care that I’m doing it, usually. I could live like this for another few years and not even care. I could waste my whole life.”

Camilla squeezes her shoulders. “It sounds like you’ve figured it out now, though.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re here,” Lardo sniffles. She’s aware that she’s absolutely pathetic. “I need to be able to do things on my own. That’s how I know I’m doing well.”

“You have a job that you got on your own. You work on art ideas that you come up with on your own. You’ve lived alone for two years without keeling over.” Camilla leans back and readjusts their positions so she can see Lardo’s face, and Lardo finds that it doesn’t even bother her. “That’s success, babe. You did it. Hell, I barely know anyone who’s ever tried living on their own. Do you know why?”

Lardo lets out a raspy laugh. “Because it sucks.”

Camilla snorts and quickly kisses her temple. “Exactly. It’s time for you to find some roommates to annoy with your messy habits, don’t you think?” 

Lardo smiles, tugging at Camilla’s hair. “We’ll see.” She pulls Camilla toward her, kisses her to see how it feels right now. Camilla lets her, but doesn’t kiss her back. 

When she pulls away, Camilla is smiling in a way that doesn’t touch her eyes. “What are we gonna do with you, huh? Life wants to love you, Larissa. You’ve got to take a step first, though.”

Lardo doesn’t know if Camilla’s talking about Lardo moving out, or about something between the two of them. She doesn’t ask. “I’m scared,” she says again. “There’s a difference between knowing the best thing to do and being brave enough to do it.” 

“That’s true,” Camilla says, and they sit in silence until Lardo hears Camilla’s stomach growl. “Hey, babe, got any pancakes left?”

“You literally just ate all that French toast.”

Camilla makes a _well, what can I say_ face. “Fast metabolism, girl. Pancakes?”

Lardo grimaces. “I finished them. They were so fucking good, Camilla.”

“Flattery will get you _everywhere,_ ” Camilla grins, and then she stands up. “C’mon, let’s rustle up some grub.”

After they manage to feed Camilla some bread that’s just starting to get stale, Lardo watches in heavy disappointment as Camilla goes to the door and slips her shoes back on. “I gotta go,” she explains when she sees Lardo looking at her. 

“Yeah,” Lardo says.

Camilla surveys her, and Lardo surveys her back. If looking good is a competition, Camilla is winning by a long shot. Lardo appreciates that. “I meant it, what I said,” Camilla finally says. “About being in your life.”

God, that would be good. Lardo doesn’t deserve someone like Camilla in her life. But she wants her there anyway. The problem is, Lardo’s life is such an ugly place right now. Camilla belongs with someone who makes her life beautiful. Lardo wants that to be her, but it’s hard to reach for something she doesn’t think she deserves.

“Talk to you soon, huh?” Camilla says when it’s clear that Lardo can’t speak. “Take care of yourself, angel.”

“Thanks,” Lardo says, so quiet it barely goes anywhere, and Camilla smiles at her before she leaves.

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


After Puppy hugs Bitty and Ola goodbye, after he watches Ola drive off and watches Bitty climb into an Uber, Puppy walks home.

It’s kind of a longer walk than he likes, especially now that he’s alone and doesn’t have anyone to talk to, but there is something really satisfying about being able to think of _home_ and know it’s somewhere Evan is, too.

He’s, like, in love. _Crush_ isn’t the right word anymore, hasn’t been since that first year he knew Evan -- not that Puppy even understood his feelings back then, back when he thought he was straight. Being in love is sort of brutal, but the bright side is he has something to be excited about waiting for him on the other end of this ridiculously long walk.

When Puppy finally climbs the stairs and unlocks their apartment door, he almost falls over from how good it smells, like ground beef and onions. He hadn’t even realized how hungry he was. This is lowkey the worst part about living with roommates; he always has to smell their cooking without actually getting to eat any of it. 

“Hey,” Evan says, sticking his head out of the kitchen doorway. He’s wearing a dark blue t-shirt and looks outrageously good. “You didn’t, like, become a vegetarian when you were in California, did you?”

“Nope,” says Puppy, even though he totally did, for about four months. Then he’d smelled salami when he was walking down the street, had kind of a mini-breakdown, and scarfed down two salami sandwiches on the spot. But that secret stays in San Francisco. 

Evan ducks back into the kitchen. “You want any chili? I made a lot.”

Puppy trails in behind him. “That would be so good, you have no idea. It smells like heaven in here.”

“Cool,” Evan says, and when he hands Puppy a bowl his smile is almost enough to make Puppy drop the bowl right then and there. 

Which is _dumb_ , because Puppy knows that, objectively, Evan’s smiles aren’t that big, or bright, or sweet, or anything like that. But it’s Evan, and he’s smiling, and this is the second time this weekend that Evan’s made him food, and there’s something about that that really, really turns Puppy on, if he’s being honest.

“Good, right?” Evan says, and Puppy can feel his face getting hot, like Evan knows what he’s thinking. “I’ve only got, like, five recipes down, but no one can mess with my chili.” 

“It’s good,” Puppy says, and coughs when a piece of beef gets stuck in his throat for a second. “It’s trying to kill me, though.”

Evan shakes his head at him, smiling, and Puppy smiles back even as his eyes water from coughing, and it might be that smile, or the fact that Evan cooked for him, or even the hot food in his belly, but Puppy feels warm all the way through, like he’ll melt right into his chair. 

He feels special. 

God, he’s so in love, and it’s amazing and probably going to kill him. 

“Oh, wait, you’ve gotta try the cookies I made, too,” Evan says, and -- oh.

_God fucking damnit_ Puppy thinks, as Evan hands him a cookie and smiles at Puppy like he means something. 

Being in love is totally going to kill him, and the feeling is making his bones ache, but Puppy isn’t complaining. He’s got Evan’s chili, and Evan’s cookie, and Evan’s smile, and a little bit of Evan himself. 

That’s more than most people can say.

“How is it?” Evan asks, and Puppy realizes he’s talking about the cookie.

They both know Puppy hasn't taken a single bite of it yet. "Perfect," he says, and Evan smiles at him again.


	4. Chapter 4

Monday, June 21, 2018

  


When Evan’s day at the office is over, he spends more time than usual tidying up his desk, finding little things to do -- he has a plan half-formed in his mind, and he’s nervous about actually doing it.

But that’s kind of the point, so after a few more minutes Evan leaves, driving out of his way to a Starbucks he never visits. He doesn’t allow himself any more time to sit in the car and panic, because he’s done being a coward for the day, and hopefully for a lot longer than that, so he goes in right away.

The line is short. He wishes it were longer, then changes his mind about that. 

“I’ll have a small iced chai latte,” he says through gritted teeth, pays, and moves to the side to wait. 

The man who orders after him comes over and stands a few feet away. It’s a normal place for him to stand, but Evan still feels pissed off, wishes he would go the fuck away and give Evan some space.

“Small iced chai latte?” a barista calls, and Evan just -- goes instantly calm. He can do this; it’s easy.

“Hi, thanks,” he says, inching forward to take his drink. Before she can move away, Evan adds, “Also, fun fact, I’m bisexual.” He thinks his voice sounded pretty normal, not shaking at all. He grins, and it’s only half-forced.

The barista looks confused, understandably. “...Oh?”

“Bye,” Evan says. He grabs a straw and a napkin, then turns to leave.

“Me too,” the guy waiting behind him says, genial as can be.

Evan laughs. “Sweet.”

The drink is pretty good, and his heart starts racing for a little bit with delayed adrenaline while he’s driving, but he calms down after a minute, so whatever. “I’m bisexual,” he informs his rearview mirror, “and I’m in love with my best friend.”

His chai latte is gone by the time he parks his car, but Evan is pleasantly surprised to find that his motivation to be super cool and brave isn’t gone. He can do this. Probably.

But when Evan opens the door to their apartment and sees Puppy already home from his first day at the new job, eating apple slices and watching Netflix, he might panic a little. 

“See ya, bye,” he says over his shoulder as he rushes past the living room, and immediately locks himself in his own bedroom.

As soon as the door is shut, Evan feels like a normal person again. He breathes in, out, and takes his shoes off, since he’d been in too much of a rush before to do that. He lies down on his bed, stares at the ceiling, and thinks about what brought him here.

The first months that he lived with Puppy, when everything Puppy did filled him with irritated fondness, and when he still thought he’d be able to get over the way Puppy’s smile made him feel.

The day Puppy ordered five sets of matching snapbacks for them to wear, because he wanted them to be twins. The way Puppy would gasp, then laugh, every time Evan grabbed the hat off his head and messed up his hair.

The moments, repeated again and again, when Puppy would crowd in next to Evan in Evan’s dorm bed, peeking over his shoulder as Evan posted submissions to their Wellie account. The familiar pressure of Puppy’s knee against his, the smell of Puppy’s strawberry shampoo right next to Evan’s face.

He still feels a hot rush of shame when he thinks about their drunken kiss, or at least when he thinks about what he did afterward, but -- Evan thinks about that hazy memory, about what it was like to tighten his fingers around Puppy’s hair, to feel Puppy grinding against him, and he feels like he might stop breathing for a second.

He’s straight-up in love. He’s always felt grouchy, almost threatened, by any real displays of emotion, but he knows he’s in love with Puppy, and it actually feels good. It feels _great_ , even if it also feels like it might give him a heart attack. Evan can’t really know for sure that Puppy feels the same way, of course, but he’s not stupid. He was there when Puppy told him that he had a crush on Evan, he was there when Puppy was drunkenly sticking his tongue down Evan’s throat in a dorm bed, and he was definitely there every time Puppy looked at him in that particular way that made Evan’s heart twinge with _something_ , and now Evan knows that _something_ has always been love.

It’s kind of gross, really, and he’s excited to tell Puppy about it.

He has to freak out, like, one more time first, though. And then he can do it.

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


It’s almost six, and March knows she’s going home soon. She was, technically, supposed to be off at five-thirty, but Ola’s been finishing up a root canal that went late, and Ola is exactly who March needs to talk to right now.

“March, you headed out?” Lisa at the front desk asks, and March smiles and shakes her head no. She doesn’t want to share her news with anyone here until Ola’s heard it; she figures Ola deserves that much. As a friend, and as a supervisor, and -- more specifically -- as the person in charge of the office this week while her parents are on vacation.

When she can hear Ola and the patient having a conversation, signaling that the appointment is ending, March moves back to the break area, where she can stay out of the way while Ola directs the patient to the front desk. 

March hears their voices in the hall; she waits a minute, then goes into the dental treatment room. Ola is alone, as March had expected, putting away her tools and beginning to sanitize the area. “Hey,” March says, once she’s sure Ola already heard her enter the room, “do you have a minute?”

“Of course,” Ola says. She takes in the serious look on March’s face, raises her eyebrows, and sits down in the patient chair with an arch look. “I am all ears.”

“Okay,” March says. It’s not really a nerve-wracking conversation -- at least she doesn’t think it is -- but she still feels more at ease now that Ola’s being so informal. March pulls out the black plastic chair by the wall with her foot, then sits down. “I know it already got around the office that April and I got engaged.”

Ola’s whole face brightens. “It got around that you were asking, not that you already asked! March, that’s so awesome. You’re going to have to sit through the world’s most boring workplace engagement celebration party, though, just a warning.”

“Yeah,” March says, laughing weakly and now beginning to find that the conversation actually is a bit nerve-wracking. “ _That_ I’d like to see. So, when April and I talked, it turns out she got a job offer at a zoo in Mendon. We spent all weekend thinking about it, and we decided the best thing for us both would be to move out there.”

“That makes sense,” Ola says, and she doesn’t look upset, or like she’s putting on a front to hide that she’s upset. She just looks -- calm. “She’s been looking for a job for a long time, right?”

March nods, tucking her feet under the chair. 

“That’s great; tell her congratulations,” Ola says. “I’m glad you’re telling me. I know you just got this all figured out, but do you know when the move would probably be?”

“A month from now,” March says. She tells herself to sit up straight, and she calms down, because she’s in control of herself, dammit. “If possible, I think I’d need my last day at work to be July 18.”

“Alright, I’ll pass that on to my parents.” Ola wiggles her toes for a second before climbing out of the chair. “It’s been such a blessing having you around here, you have no idea. Whatever references you need, you’re getting at least three great ones from us.” She nudges March with her elbow before walking to the sink to continue cleaning up. “You’re going to be missed, that’s for sure.”

“Thank you,” March says, and she leaves to grab her purse. Quick, painless, and to the point, just the way she likes it.

She pauses at the front door, pulling out her phone.

  


**To:** April  
Headed back now. Gave my notice at work.

  


March glances behind her. She’d expected to feel a little terrified, now that things are set in motion and everything feels more real. Leaving, finding a new place to live, applying for jobs. 

But she just feels lucky.

  


**To:** April  
Love you.

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


Camilla’s just taking her heels off when her phone buzzes, and the first thing she thinks is that she hopes it’s Lardo.

And it is.

  


  


**From:** L  
I’m just going to bite the bullet and send this. I’m still scared, for a lot of reasons that are probably stupid. It feels easier to stay where I am, even if it’s empty and nothing, because when I’m on autopilot and don’t feel anything then I don’t have to worry about taking risks, or how it might hurt if those risks fail. But the truth is I never feel happier than when you’re around, which is really inconveniencing me right now. You’ve always been that way. And I feel like I have to make a decision. Either stay feeling nothing, or do something that’s scarier and better. So. Will you be in my life? And will you help me move, because that’s scaring the shit out of me? I don’t want to do this on my own anymore.

  


  


Camilla sits down on the floor, because this is a lot to take in.

 _Also, you want to start dating again, right?_ Lardo sends a second later, and Camilla starts laughing and can’t stop. 

Maybe Lardo sucks at feeling things, but Camilla never has, and right now every inch of her is nothing but relief. It’s a heavy feeling, like an anxiety she didn’t know she was carrying has lifted off her skin, and Camilla texts Lardo back as soon as she catches her breath.

  


**To:** L  
Of course I want to date you. You’re the coolest person I know. We’ve got this, babe. And trust me, the world’s not ready for this dynamic duo to be back together. It’s all good from here.

  


_Cheesy_ , Lardo sends back, and Camilla sends her the address to Camilla’s apartment. 

It sucks that Camilla’s roommates are home tonight, but between the two of them it’s only Camilla who’s loud during sex. Maybe tonight can just be about Lardo.

She’s a great roommate, Camilla thinks, very _considerate_ , and after she’s done with Lardo tonight no one would ever deny that she’s also an incredible girlfriend. 

_Don’t wear underwear,_ she sends as an afterthought, because if they’re getting back together after three years, they might as well start things off a little spicy.

  


  


  


* * *

  


  


  


It’s a little past six o’clock when Evan leaves his room. He hears the TV still on, so he knows Puppy must be in the living room. He tries to be sneaky, tries to be quiet as he moves from the hallway to the living room, because he wants to look at Puppy for a moment before he goes in there and changes things.

Puppy’s easy to spy on; he’s watching some cheesy, low-quality movie on Netflix and giving it all his attention. His hair is sticking up funny, like he’d been wearing a hat, and he’s wearing a royal blue t-shirt that Evan recognizes from when the whole team volunteered at a kids’ lacrosse camp. Evan still has that shirt too, but he just wears his to sleep in.

“What are you watching?” he asks, and laughs when Puppy jumps a little at the sound of his voice. “It looks awful.”

“It is,” Puppy says, in a way that makes it clear he likes when movies are awful, but Evan already knew that. Puppy pauses it, though. “What’s up?”

Evan _does_ have a plan for how he wants this conversation to go down, actually, but now that his heart is beating wildly he kind of wants to just blurt out _I’m bisexual_ and then disappear, like Starbucks all over again. He tries anyway. “I needed to talk to you about something, actually,” he says. As he sits down on the sofa next to Puppy, he can feel his heart still beating faster than usual, but he feels solid, not shaking at all. “Okay?”

Puppy looks a little alarmed, but he nods. “Um, okay?”

Earlier, Evan had put some thought into where he should begin, and while there’s no _easy_ place to start, he still feels like he picked the right idea. He’s going to get things rolling by apologizing for being a shithead, move into explaining that he returns Puppy’s feelings, then end by sharing what he wants (a relationship, kissing, frightening levels of romance). And he’s going to rock the shit out of this speech. “There’s some stuff I should have said to you a long time ago. It might be weird to talk about now, but it’s good, okay?”

Puppy stares at him. “I’m scared.”

“Dude, it’s fine,” Evan says, grabbing Puppy’s hand -- and oops, he might be jumping the gun a little there. Whatever. “I just need to apologize. Not for, like, being an asshole in general, because it’s pointless to apologize for something that isn’t going to change, but I want to apologize for being a dick. After we kissed senior year, that wasn’t your fault, and it wasn’t okay for me to put all my bad feelings on you. Same thing a couple days ago. There’s no reason for me to treat you like that, and I’m sorry.”

He’s never been good at apologies -- at choosing to give them, or at delivering them the right way on the rare occasion that he tries. But Puppy smiles at him, a little cautiously, and says, “It’s cool. I get it.”

Evan thinks there’s a decent chance that Puppy really does get it, that he hasn’t hidden his feelings as well as he had wanted to, and that’s -- that’s finally a good thing. “Thanks, Puppy.” He takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

Puppy scoots a little closer. “Okay?”

This is it. Evan looks at Puppy’s familiar blue t-shirt, his hands -- one still holding the TV remote, one still holding Evan’s hand -- and he feels _ready_. “That’s not all I wanted to say. I wanted to tell you that I know we didn’t really talk, like, at all for the year that you were gone, and things got super fucked up between us before then, which was my fault, but you’ve always been my best friend. You’re the most important person in my life. Do you know that?”

Puppy looks embarrassed, but he manages to laugh. “Aww. Evan.”

“Well, you are. And -- you make me happier than anyone else. And I like being with you more than anyone else. Sometimes that felt like, I don’t know, a bad thing when we were at Samwell, because I didn’t want to deal with it, but I want to now. I want _you_.”

Puppy’s hand goes limp in his. “Huh?”

“I -- come on, Puppy. You think I keep kissing you in a bro way or something? I’m, like, super in love with you. It’s gross.”

“Oh, um --” Puppy looks like he might lose the ability to breathe. He stares at Evan, and Evan squeezes his hand, trying to reassure him or whatever.

“I’m sorry it took me, like, ten million years to tell you, but I knew I wasn’t straight way before I met you, and I didn’t want to actually do anything about it. ‘Cause I’m, like, bi. So I was just going to be with girls and ignore the rest. But by the end of freshman year I knew I was super into you and it was, like, a problem or whatever, but it was cool because we were best friends. And it was kind of crazy when you figured out you were gay, because that made it way harder to ignore how I felt, which is probs why I started making out with you that one time we were drunk, and I figured out this week that I’m probably going to wish I was with you for the rest of my life anyway, so I might as well man up and just go for it, so -- shit, why are you crying?”

Puppy starts laughing even though he totally is crying, and then he sort of gets all up in Evan’s personal space by reaching out and using both his hands to touch Evan’s face, fingers tracing all over it in a way that’s tender but also like he’s checking it’s real. “Cool,” he says.

Evan laughs. “Yeah.” He’s trying to think of something else to say when Puppy leans forward and kisses him, and it feels -- he can feel the tears on Puppy’s face, wet against Evan’s skin; a warm, soft heat from Puppy’s mouth; Puppy’s hands moving down Evan’s back, sweet and exploring. Evan realizes he’s already grabbed onto Puppy’s hair right around the moment he feels Puppy climbing onto his lap, and then all he can really focus on is pulling Puppy closer, letting Puppy’s tongue do whatever it wants in Evan’s mouth. “Love you,” Evan says around the edges of a kiss, because he can’t not say it, and he isn’t even embarrassed.

He tightens his hold on Puppy’s hair when someone knocks loudly at the door. “Oh,” Puppy mumbles, pulling away. Evan brings him back and presses his own face into Puppy’s shoulder so Puppy can still talk. “I forgot to tell you, Marty’s coming over! Or, is here now. I guess.”

Evan glances over and can see Puppy’s phone lighting up with messages to let Marty in. He laughs, then moves up so he can kiss Puppy again. “You guess?”

Marty knocks again. The knocks sound very annoyed.

“Hold on, Marty, Jesus Christ,” Evan yells. “I’m kissing my --” He looks at Puppy, lowers his voice. “Can I call you my boyfriend? Is that accurate?”

“Yeah, dumbass,” Puppy says, his smile gorgeous and _huge_ , and he starts laughing in a way that suggests he thinks Evan isn’t particularly smooth, and that he finds it delightful. “Oh! And I love you too.”

“I’m kissing my boyfriend!” Evan shouts, and there’s a pause before he hears the muffled sound of Marty saying _“Oh, thank God!”_

Evan smooths down some of Puppy’s terrible hat-hair. “Can I let him in now?”

Puppy makes a show of thinking about it. “Hmm. No.” He scoots forward on Evan’s lap until Evan has nowhere to go, which thrills Evan in a way he doesn’t bother to hide. “Give him another two minutes.”

“Nice,” Evan breathes, and then Puppy leans down and Evan discovers that Puppy is a way better kisser than he is. And it’s more like three minutes, but who the fuck cares?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay :)
> 
> The jury is still out as to whether or not I'll eventually add more to this series, but make sure you subscribe to the series itself if you don't want to miss possible future updates. Thank you for reading <3
> 
> Edit 9/19  
> IMPORTANT UPDATE!!! I forgot to mention that I totally made Puppy's dad a pastor just so "Son of a Preacher Man" could be the Puppy/Evan song.
> 
> Also, I didn't hear this song until right now, but I've got to add that Out of My Head by Loote is a great Camilla/Lardo song, based on their dynamic here.


End file.
